alli

23

[gaycha0sgrem1in]

Group chat behavior Masterpost

Butters the cat

Business Butters

Drama queen

Girls night

Vet visit

Cooking time!

Angry Butters

Simp(gay edition)

Simp(but lesbians)

Cookies(and homosexuality)

Game night!

Gay planing

The invitation

Bar time!!

Bar time but other povs

Fun time

Hangover!!

Eat food!

Mistake??

Flirting????

Debrief time

Hot girl talk

Planning a date?

Books and ice cream

Screaming, crying, throwing up

Pining

Dog

Sacrificed to nights

Flirting#2??

Timeout corner

White boy

First shift down

Vet visit #2

What’s happening

Just get your man!!

Friday???

Dates!!!???

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[eufezco]

LOVE IN A BOTTLE

synopsis – when meds start disappearing from the er and your best friend langdon becomes responsible for it, your name gets dragged down with his. and your boyfriend, jack, decides to take care of it before it reaches any higher.

c/w – drugs and mention of drug use !! medical inaccuracies !!

a/n - first time writing since last month so sorry if this sucks! also this is my first time writing for the pitt so again sorry if this sucks

angst

—can we talk?

you looked back over your shoulder, caught off guard by the tone more than the interruption itself. jack was behind you, standing there with his jaw tight, shoulders straightened, eyes fixed on you like whatever he had to say couldn't wait another second. mel noticed too. the shift in the air was immediate.

—uh... yeah, —you say slowly, studying him, —let us just finish this...

—now.

you blinked, thrown off, but jack didn't show a flicker of hesitation. if anything, he looked like he had already decided how this goes. mel was looking between you two, but your eyes were still locked on jack, trying to read him and find something familiar in his expression.

—i'm asking you as your superior.

the words hit harder than they should. not because of the authority but because he used it with you. you swallowed, trying to hide a reaction. you finally turned to mel, she was looking at you, just as confused as you were. you showed her a little smile, not your usual one, just enough to smooth things over and hit her with an i'll be back in a second.

—come with me, —jack said, and started walking leaving you behind. you gave mel one last glance, surprised by the fact that he didn't even wait for you. you did a little run to catch him.

—can you tell me what's going on?

jack ignored you and opened one if the er rooms, pushing the door open. he stepped aside to let you pass and, even though you hesitated, searching his face for anything, he still won't meet your eyes. jack followed immediately behind you and closed the door behind his back.

the room was empty, except for you and jack and all the medical supplies. but there was something else. a cart with a tray containing a couple of syringes, small labeled vials, and a jar for urination.

—sit, —jack said, pointing at the stretcher with his head.

you hesitated. you weren't liking his tone, much less the fact that he was ignoring you, —not until you tell me what all of this is about.

jack reached for the glove box and pulled two out. he slid one glove on,—your friend langdon left, —your eyes opened wide. without looking up, jack slid the other glove, flexing his fingers once, adjusting the latex, —well, he didn't actually left. robby kicked him. wanna know why?

—what do you mean kicked him? —you asked, a hint of panic slipping through.

jack looks at you for a second too long before answering.

—because your friend langdon has been stealing medsfrom the er.

you shook your head, —langdon wouldn't...

—but he did. and you were too close to him.

—what's that supposed to mean?

he didn't answer right away. jack walked past you toward the cart instead, checking for something on the tray, —it means that when i was hearing about it, your name kept coming up.

your stomach dropped, the accusation finally coming to the surface.

—you covered shifts together, shared patients, shared logins a couple of times. sit, —he said again.

—that's how we work here, everyone does it.

jack nodded, —i know.

—then why are you saying it like it means something?

his jaw tightened, —because robby thinks it means something.

you let out a short laugh, dry and bitter as you slowly nodded. of course it was robby. you could practically picture it. robby standing in front of jack, arms crossed, building patterns out of coincidence because he never liked things that escaped his control. or maybe he never liked this thing you and jack had going on. maybe robby never liked you.

—right, —you muttered, —of course he does.

—he found discrepancies tied to controlled meds. not one. multiple.

—and now he's tying me to it because i'm friends with langdon. yeah, this is perfect. he's been waiting for a reason to come after me since day one.

jack shook his head, —i just need to run some test on you and all of this would be forgotten.

a wave of anger rose fast, you thought this was only about langdon stealing drugs and you helping him, but this took a completely different way, —you think i'm using?

his head moved to look at you, —no.

—but you need to test me.

—if robby pushes this higher, they're are going to...

—that's not whay i asked.

jack exhaled, jaw clenching, —i don't want to believe that, but...

you stepped back from him, shaking your head slowly, a soft wow was the only thing you could let out. jack rubbed his face out of frustration, mumbling a come on, don't do this. you huffed a laugh in response.

suddenly you started replying every interaction from the past days that could've make him doubt about you. the coffee you spilled because your hands shook slightly, the way you snapped at santos for repeating a question. it all felt human but now they looked like evidences.

—it won't take long, baby, and then all of this would be cleared out.

you scrunched your face when jack hit you with the baby. the sudden tenderness felt wrong, —don't call me that right now. not when you're accusing me of being an addict.

jack shook his head again, —please, —he said, —just sit down.

you stood for another second, staring at him. part of you wanted to walk out even though it would make you look guilty. the other part of you wanted to scream at him how unforgivable this felt. instead, you just reached for the sleeve of your scrub top as you shoved it up your arm. then you sat on the edge of the stretcher, refusing to look at him as you exposed the inside of your arm.

jack moved toward you and grabbed your arm gently, his fingers stretching the skin where your forearm met your upper arm, angling your arm toward the light as he looked carefully along the inside of it. looking for puncture marks. he was physically checking your body for signs of drug use. he who knew every inch of you, now examining your skin for evidences. your face scrunched again, now trying not to cry.

his eyes lifted to your face, —hey, —jack said quietly.

you looked away, —don't. let's finish with this, please.

jack nodded. he released your arm and moved to the other one, his thumb paused near the inside of your elbow. nothing. of course nothing. you swallowed, blinking fast as your vision began to blur. jack noticed and let your arm go. no marks, he murmured, professionally, more to himself than to you. you noticed a hint of relief there.

he stepped back toward the tray. you pulled down one of his sleeves while he took his time opening the blood draw supplies. when he came back to you with the needle and an alcohol swab, he paused before touching you again.

—left arm okay?

you nodded once without looking at him.

jack cleaned the inside of your arm, trying to be comforting, yet he no longer knew what would help the situation and what would make it worse. he tied the tourniquet around your arm and tapped gently along your vein.

—small pinch, —he murmured.

you almost laughed. those words pulled a memory too quickly. late nights during your residency when jack started letting you practice blood draws on him after you missed the vein twice on a trauma patient and looked so horrified. after that you nearly convinced yourself you weren't made for emergency medicine until jack found you hiding in an empty supply room. he walked in, dropped into a chair and rolled up his sleeve. alright, vampire, redeem yourself.

you winced when jack pushed the needle in.

the positioning was almost identical, but reversed. now you were the one with your arm exposed while he stood between your knees. you remembered the way he used to look at you during those nights, the way you fell in love with him, and now his eyes kept moving between the vial filling with your blood and your face, trying to hold together two completely different versions of you.

he slid the needle out, immediately pressing a gauze against the inside of your arm.

—i need you to... —he coughed, taking the small container, —i need a urine sample too. there's a bathroom connected through that door, —jack explained.

the blood draw had already felt like being stabbed. this was twisting the knife. it felt even more humiliating, more invasive. your face went still, no expression while the pain turned into anger.

jack saw it happen in real time.

—you don't... —he started.

—yeah, i know where the bathroom is, —you cut, —i work here, thank you.

you took the container form his hand and walked pass him, stepping into the small bathroom attached to the room. you shut the door harder than necessary and leaned against the counter. you stared at your reflection, but the only thing you could pay attention to was the bandage peaking out of your scrub sleeve and what it meant.

when you were done, you walked out. jack looked up immediately when he heard the door but this time, he wasn't alone.

robby was there, standing near the door with his arms crossed. his eyes dropped to the cup in your hand and then moved back to your face, humiliation crashing over you once again, this time so hard you almost dropped the container.

—the'll run a quick toxicology test on both, the blood and the urine... it should be done in couple of minutes.

—what is he doing here? —you asked.

—we found langdon's meds in his locker, —robby explained, —and you know how this works.

—no, —you shot back, —i know how you work.

—then you should know this stopped being personal the moment narcotics started disappearing.

—yeah, —a dry laugh escaped your mouth, —it's not like you've been on my ass since my first day.

robby laughed the same way you did, taking a step toward you. he was about to say something, probably a comment with that soft tone he liked to use when he wanted his words to cut as deep as possible without ever raising his voice, but jack intervened just in time.

—while we wait for the results, robby wants to see your locker, —jack said quickly, as if saying fast would make it less intrusive.

—my locker, —you repeated in disbelief.

—as i was telling you, langdon had narcotics stored in his. we're checking anyone directly connected to him, —robby continued.

—anyone? or just me?

—we do this and it ends here, —jack said to you but looking at robby.

yeah, it definitely ends here, you thought.

robby stepped to aside and walked behind you.

jack arrived later and by then, all your stuff was spread across the floor. your notebooks, your bag, some protein bars, your pair of spare sneakers, pens and receipts everywhere. even the picture you had hanging on the door had fallen during the search, the one after a thirty hour shift with you and jack outside the ambulance. he had one of his arms thrown around your shoulders, kissing your temple while you held up a coffee toward the camera like a survival trophy.

—she's clean, —jack announced, waving the toxicology report to robby, —blood and urine, everything came back negative.

robby took the paper from jack without speaking at first, scanning the results. your eyes lifted and met jack's. he was already looking at you. he was looking at you like he'd always trust you, there was no doubt in his expression now. but it didn't matter, because he'd needed to see those results. the realization hit harder than the locker search, than the blood draw and the humiliation of sitting on that stretched while the man you loved checked your arms for signs of addiction: jack didn't trust you. at least not enough to defend you when you were being pointed at as a drug addict.

robby lowered the report and nodded, —okay, that's what we needed.

—what's gonna happen to langdon?

robby exhaled, he hadn't really thought about it, should he report him? should he give him another chance? —he went home for now, after that... i don't know.

you nodded. robby pressed his lips together and left, smacking the paper against jack's chest. congratulations, your girlfriend's not a junkie. you stared at the floor before kneeling down to start gathering your things. your notebook first, then the pens scattered beneath the bench, the crushed protein bars and the receipts near your sneakers.

jack stepped forward but you mumbled an i don't need your fucking help, and he stopped on his track. jack watched you pick up everything and shoved it into your locker, careless, as if you wanted this done as soon as possible. you picked everything except one thing. you didn't miss it, you left it exactly where it had fallen.

he remembered the shift, the sunrise, the way you'd laughed when he kissed your temple because as dana took the photo, she kept threatening to report both of you for disgusting resident behavior.

you closed the locker, harder than necessary, and walked past jack.

he called your name, alongside with a baby. jack followed you down the hallway. the er buzzed around you the second you pushed through the doors again and you felt completely detached from it. people looked at you, maybe because your eyes were red, maybe because they already noticed langdon's absence and they were asking to themselves if you knew something about it.

you kept walking, straight to the nurses' station. dana looked up the moment she saw you, her entire expression changing.

—what can i... where can i help?

dana pushed her chair back and stood up, —what happened to you?

your face crumpled before you could stop it.

—oh, sweeheart...

her arms wrapped around you before you even realized you were crying, pulling you tightly against her, one hand pressing protectively against the back of your head while the other one rubbed up and down your back. jack approached from behind, eyes fixed on you, and dana understood immediately that this had something to do with him. she lifted one hand from your back and waved it to him. leave. jack looked like he wanted to argue with her, then dana's expression hardened even more and someone yelled dr. abbot, trauma 2.

you hid your face against dana because you just remembered when it first started.

you were looking at the patient board with langdon, knowing you'd both have to stay after hours. we should do drugs, he joked. it'd definitely make this easier, you answered. that day you laughed it off, it was just dark er humor, but a few days later, langdon brought it up again.

you remembered the first time langdon actually offered you something.

you'd both been sitting in the break room. langdon watched you curse under your breath before reaching into his pocket.

—here, —he said, sliding half a pill across the table.

—what is that?

—it'll keep you awake.

you should've said no immediately but instead you just played with it, too exhausted to think about consequences beyond making it through the next few hours.

—you actually take this?

—sometimes.

and langdon looked functional. he charted faster than anyone, worked better in trauma than any other resident, joked around with nurses like nothing was wrong... so you took it, and the worst part was that it worked, and after that, saying yes became easier.

you would spot him by his locker and feel something in your chest loosen with relief because most of the times he'd already have something waiting. a pill to tuck into the pocket of your scrub, a quick you want half? mumbled under his breath... then he started showing up with different pills, sometimes crushed, sometimes asking if you needed something stronger because you looked exhausted.

and living with jack make things difficult because he was one of the best doctors you'd ever met. observant in ways most people weren't, the kind of physician that could diagnose from tiny details everyone else overlooked.

so you knew that if you weren't careful, he'd started to notice things.

you thanked he usually wasn't around at three in the morning because he'd have seen you pacing around the apartment because your brain refused to slow down after your shift ended, would've seen the way when you'd disappear into the bathroom after another nosebleed.

—you should just inject it, —frank suggested. you were both in his car, he was driving you home. you had your tilted forward with a tissue pressed beneath your nose.

—what?

—it'll stop wrecking your nose.

but you couldn't risk it, not when jack knew your body the way he did.

his lips were familiar with the inside of your thighs and the side of your neck, he'd draw little patterns on the inside of your arm while you both watched a movie on the couch, hold your hand whenever he could... every major vein zone of your body, jack knew it intimately. one track mark and it would all collapse. it was positive in some way, because you stayed away from needles and you could tell yourself that things weren't that bad.

as your tears soaked dana's scrubs, all you could think about was what could've happened if you hadn't almost given a patient the wrong dosage four days ago.

langdon reacted fast, grabbing your wrist at the last second, but he looked terrified and you did too. after that, he decided you needed a break. he'd close his locker whenever you were around, he stopped offering you... and you were furious at langdon because your body noticed the absence. the exhaustion came back all at once, you spilled your coffee because your hands shook , you snapped at santos for repeating a question... all of that because you couldn't bear it.

if none of that had happened, the toxicology exam would've come back positive. the thought of it sat in your chest while dana held you together in the middle of the er and you couldn't stop replaying the way jack had looked at you after the results came back, relieved, guilty for ever questioning you in the first place.

and jack stood there hating himself for suspecting you while the truth had only missed him by four days.

[voidsagent]

things i NEED to see shawn hatosy on/do:

- host SNL (pls im BEGGING. he’d be so good in the skits.)

- royal court (again i’m BEGGING)

- good mythical morning, he matches their vibes.

- put this man on the french show with the good lighting NOW.

- graham norton, get that man all giggly.

- a people magazine cover (sexiest man alive i’m looking at you- 👀)

[bunny-peony]

it’ll only hurt a little bit :p 🦇

[wesandresons]

SHAWN HATOSY as JACK ABBOT THE PITT 2.07 “1:00 PM”

[mercury-retrogay]

Study Buddies & Second Chances

Dennis Whitaker x model! fem! reader

Summary: When you get wheeled into the ER, Dennis is forced to acknowledge how much he missed you, and how, despite all the years that have passed, he is just as pathetic for you as he was before.

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: Talks of a car accident, injuries, a lot of fluff and yearning, Trinity Santos being the menace we all know and love, reader uses she/her pronouns and also is a model, she also got an unspecified PhD cause we love a multifaceted baddie, idk it's all fluff-

Notes: This is barely edited and feels really rushed I'm ngl but I hope it turned out alright. I cannot figure out how I want Dennis' inner dialogue to sound. Also posting this at 4:30 am my time so goodnight folks. Comments are always appreciated!

If Dennis had genuinely thought his day was going to pass by smoothly, he should have known better the moment one of the students said it was quiet.

He’s never considered himself a violent person. But at that moment? Any one of his thoughts could have him sent up to psych for an evaluation. Of course, even if he wanted to have someone ask about his childhood for an hour straight, he wouldn’t have had the time before the incoming call came in.  

By the look on Trinity’s face when she turned to look at the kid, she was far closer to assault charges than anyone should be before noon. With a sigh, he nudged her towards the doors as the first patient rolled in. 

A car accident. Some moron decided he didn’t need winter tires in Pittsburgh during the dead of winter. As a result, he’d slid instead of stopping for a red light. Directly into the side of another car. 

The driver and his passenger, his younger sister, showed up first. The driver had lacerations on his palms and fingers from attempting to pry open the other driver's door after his SUV caved the whole thing in upon impact. The teen girl had a head wound and a concussion at minimum, definitely due for a CT scan. Airbags failed to deploy, of course. Probably the car’s revenge for refusing to care for it properly. 

A woman was pushed through the bay less than 15 minutes later. The fire department arrived and managed to pry her car door open. Possible spinal injury due to the force of impact. Her legs were compressed in the crash, but seem fully functional beyond mild lacerations. The airbags deployed, but check for concussion. Pain and tightness in the right wrist. 

All of this was important, but felt rather inconsequential when faced with the fact Dennis knew her. 

He couldn’t stop the way her name slipped from his mouth, breathy in his horror. She smiled when she looked up at him. 

“Pretty sure you’re supposed to ask me my name to check for responsiveness, Dennis,” The piece of his brain that remained functional noted that your answer alone proved how aware you were. The much louder part of him cheered that you remembered him enough to greet him by name with a smile, even after all the time that had passed. “Shame on you, trying to help me cheat before I even start the test.”

He practically tripped over himself to keep up with the gurney, knees weaker than they’d been since… well, probably since pre-med, the last time he’d seen you. You hugged him and both promised to keep in touch. 

“What are you doing in Pittsburgh?” And no, that’s not the question to ask right now, but in his defence, most people wheeled in here looked like hell. He hadn’t been trained for a patient to be so beautiful it led to him having heart palpitations. Thankfully, Robby stepped in before Dennis could embarrass himself further. 

“Maybe we should leave the catching up till after we examine the trauma patient, Dr. Whitaker?” He looked as if he was trying not to smile, betrayed by the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. 

Robby would attempt to subtly dig for more information later, Dennis was sure. It would be worth the teasing, though, if he could get another smile from you before then. Maybe even a laugh. 

“Yes. Absolutely, of course, you’re right-” He forced himself to shut up and focus, listening as you answered Trinity’s list of questions and trying not to be too obvious in how invested he was. 

The examination looked good so far. Nothing horribly wrong, at least, and you seemed fully cognizant. You had dramatically sighed after Robby made an ice pun, turning to Dennis with big eyes and asking if he could “pretty please put you under for the rest of the exam”.

You’d need a CT, along with a x-ray for your wrist. Robby didn’t look too worried. Until then, Santos would be your primary doctor, and you would wait down in the ER until your tests. 

Of course, the Pitt calms could smell his desperation, so he got pulled away to do his job immensely after. By the time he can breathe again, you’re being taken upstairs for the imaging. You offer a small wave as you pass, looking embarrassed to be in a wheelchair as you chatted with Princess. 

The elevator slid shut right as Trinity cornered him behind the central desk. 

“So?”

Because, of course, Trinity would hunt him down long before Robby would. Robby pretended to be professional. Trinity had never bothered going that route with Dennis. 

“So what?”

The sigh she let out told him exactly where this conversation was heading. 

“Oh come on!” Trinity leaned across the desk, as if getting closer would make him talk faster. She was right, since knowing he was within hitting distance did wonders in convincing him tell her what she wanted. “How do you know Miss ‘I was in a car accident but still look like I walked off a TV set’, huh?”

And yeah, that was fair enough. Because you looked perfect. Though Dennis had thought the same thing during exam week when you were dressed in sweats, eyes puffy from crying, and hands shaking from caffeine. So he could definitely be biased. 

He hesitated. 

Part of him had wanted to keep this, you, to himself, at least for a little longer. But that wasn’t feasible, and beyond that, it wasn’t as if Trinity would ask about your favourite muffin or childhood dog. He could keep the important bits for himself. 

“We went to university together when I was premed. Took a few classes together and we had a study group together in the first year, but like half the group dropped out, so we ended up just studying without them for the rest of uni.” 

Trinity’s gasp was far too dramatic for what had amounted to you both camping out in the library too late into the night, or later on, at your apartment, purposefully ignoring your roommate’s teasing comments and ridiculous amounts of winking. 

“Wow, study dates, just the two of you? Didn’t know you had it in you, huckleberry,” She kept talking, ignoring his stammering and progressively reddening face. “Kinda punching above your weight class, there.”

Trinity paused next to him, expression uncharacteristically gentle for a moment. “She seems sweet, though. And she’s hot, obviously. Good for you.” Grabbing her tablet, she grinned again, the softness gone as fast as it had come. “If you don’t shoot your shot, I will.”

With that, she was pacing away towards chairs, leaving Dennis staring blankly after her.

She was probably joking. Probably. She wouldn’t ask out a patient, that was for sure. 

Probably. 

If he explained to Trinity that it would really fuck him up if she asked out the girl he’d been in love with since he was 19 and never really got over, she’d definitely back off. But he didn’t want to explain that because it raised the question of why he never acted on it. 

And look, despite the way he was raised, he’d dated a fair number of women. A few serious relationships and some flings in between. He didn’t consider himself entirely undesirable. But there were limits, right? And Trinity was right. You were so far out of his league it wasn’t even funny. 

Dennis valued friendships, and you were one of the best friends he’d ever had. Maybe still the best in a lot of ways. He would take friendship over trying for more and losing you. 

Not that it changed anything, in the end, when you’d drifted apart regardless. 

Robby called for him near the ambulance bay door. Shaken out of his stupor, he sighed and attempted to force you out of his mind and act like the doctor he’d worked so hard to become. 

You were rolled back down to the ER within the hour, waiting on your results, when Trinity asked him for assistance regarding patient care and practically herded him into your room. Patient care was quickly revealed to be standard questions that devolved into an attempt at gossip within a few minutes of talking. 

In retrospect, he was only surprised she didn’t find out sooner. 

“You’re a model?” Trinity stopped writing to stare at you, then Dennis, and then you again. 

You laughed, pushing yourself further up on the bed, grinning at Dennis as if her reaction was so amusing you wanted to share the feeling with him. He wanted to be upset that Trinity got the chance to make you laugh first, but any chance to hear you happy was a positive in his books. 

Distantly, he was reminded how goddamn pathetic he had always been for you. He wasn’t so naive as to think the feeling would ever go away, not after it persisted for 4 years straight. Yet somehow, it still knocked the air out of his chest. 

He was so distracted by your smile that he almost missed your response. 

“Not, like, a super big one or anything! I just do like advertisements for jewelry, clothing, stuff like that,” Always too modest. As if Dennis wouldn’t pay to watch you curled up on the shitty couch you had in college, clutching instant coffee like a lifeline- And that thought alone was another example of pathetic. “No runways or anything fancy.”

Trinity opened her mouth, but Dennis jumped in first. “So, why Pittsburgh then? I thought you went to New York for your PhD program.”

The look on your face threw him off momentarily. Lips parted, eyes wide and blinking up at him, as if something he said stunned you. 

Did you really think he wouldn’t remember your plans for after school? 

You cried when you got the acceptance letter. He bought a shitty grocery store cake. You both ate it with plastic forks in the park, frosting staining your lips a bright, artificial blue. 

You stammered, breaking eye contact, suddenly interested in your own hands. “Yeah! Yeah, I finished that early last year, actually. And then one of my professors got me an interview at the University of Pittsburgh for a part-time teaching position? They offered me the job, and it even has research opportunities, so, it’s pretty great.” You were never as nervous as when you spoke about your own accomplishments. “I just started last week. I was on my way to the lab when, um, you know.”

He didn’t get the chance to try and formulate a response before Trinity is whacking him on the arm. 

“Hold up, you’re a model with a PhD, teaching at a university in your 20s- Holy shit, Whitaker, got any other perfect friends hiding around here? The next president of America, maybe?” And if he preened a tad, that was his own business. You were perfect, thank you very much, and he appreciated it when others told you that. You could use the confidence boost. 

He watched your head jerked up, staring at Trinity, then him, as if expecting him to lessen your apparent embarrassment. Yeah, good luck with that. 

“A professor with lab access?” Dennis couldn’t stop his grin if he tried. “That’s amazing! I'm proud of you. I know how hard you worked to get here.”

The way you smiled, smaller than before, shy, but so sweet, made something in his stomach drop straight into a freefall. 

Your lips opened (and was he staring too much at your mouth?), but before you spoke, Mel’s head popped between the curtains: two incoming traumas, one in cardiac arrest in the ambulance. 

The satisfied nod when he promised to visit before you were discharged made it easier to walk away. 

Afterwards, he didn’t even make it to the nurse's desk before Trinity informed him that your results are back. 

“You wanna go give your girl the good news and discharge her for me?” And usually, the answer whenever Trinity tried to convince him to give discharge instructions so she can go do the “fun stuff” is hell no, but- well, he did want to talk to you again, and her calling you “his girl” was a nice addition, even if it was untrue. 

You grinned at him when he slid past the curtain, your whole body leaning forward, and God, he adored you-

The discharge instructions were fairly simple. You managed to avoid any fractures in your wrist, just a light sprain. CT was clear, but self-monitor for any new or worsening headache, dizziness, nausea, or other related symptoms. Basic wound care for the abrasions on your left leg, watch for symptoms of infection and come back in 10 days to have the stitches removed. 

You nodded along patiently as he gave his speech, and it was all going so well right up until he demonstrated how to wrap your wrist. 

He pinned the loose fabric of the bandage and went to let go of your hand (and no, his own hands did not shake because he was a doctor, for gods' sake, and you were technically a patient, even if only for another few minutes, and Trinity had ownership of your file). Your good hand reached out and clasped his wrist. Dennis went so still it was as if you’d pulled out a weapon, and you released him, smiling shyly. 

“Sorry, sorry, I just-” You sighed, looking up at him from the bed, and whatever was left of his self-preservation whispered that you were too close. “I just really missed my study buddy, I guess.”

Dennis’ voice slipped lower without his permission, closer to a whisper than he could recall ever using in the ER. “I missed you, too.” He paused, and then, because you deserve to know how true it was. “A lot. I’m sorry I didn’t reach out more.”

He watched as a shiver raced over your skin, slipping off the cot to stand up. The space between you two shrank further. The ER was always cold, that was all. No further examination needed. 

“No, no, that’s not just on you. I could’ve done more, too. Life happened,” You stared up at him, voice dropping to match his. You lick your lips, and he definitely shouldn’t have been staring close enough to notice that. “But we ran into each other again, so it all worked out.”

Slowly, you reached forward again, hand fiddling with the neck of his scrub, and holy shit, way too close-

His heart rate was definitely elevated. That didn’t stop him from reaching out after you, fingers curling around yours, thumb resting over your pulse. It was quick, too. 

“Hey,” You stared at your joint hands, avoiding his eyes. “Am I officially discharged?”

At his nod, you finally looked up at him, biting your lip. 

This cannot be happening. 

“Okay. If I’m not a patient anymore, will you kiss me? I’ve kind of been waiting a while.”

His lips are pressed to yours before he could second-guess himself, before he could even consider the implication that you’d been waiting for him to kiss you- and how long had that been going on?

You let out a breathy gasp, as if shocked despite asking for this. He pushed closer still, his other hand slid down to cradle your jaw, tilting your head back slightly. 

It didn’t last long. The ER is far from romantic, and you were both tired. When you separated, instead of stepping away, you slid closer yet again, forehead resting against his shoulder. He could feel your smile pressed against his neck. Your hand was still cradled in his between the both of you as he ran his thumb in soothing circles on your palm. It should have been uncomfortable. It wasn’t. 

“Can I make a request now, too?” The smile pressed into his skin grew. His own followed as he felt your nod against him. “Can I get your new number? And we could go get coffee, for old times' sake?”

You giggled, all sweet joy, pulling back to look at him again. “That was two questions.”

Dennis couldn’t stop himself from kissing you again. You fall into him easily, as if you’d been doing this for years. 

You both broke apart again, smiling too widely to keep going. 

“Is that a no?”

You hummed teasingly, as if still thinking about it. The younger version of him would have rushed over himself to tell you that there was no pressure. Now, Dennis knew you better and could look past his own insecurities to see the elation in your eyes. 

“Give me your phone.”

As you input your contact, he couldn’t help but stare. Something must’ve shown on his face, because when you looked back at him, holding out his phone, you cocked your head, giving him a curious grin. “What?”

“You’re beautiful.” The way you flushed encourages him to go one step further. “You always have been. I should’ve told you before.”

You pressed your lips to his once, twice, three times, a burst of quick pecks, your face hot enough to feel against his, before stepping back and staring at your shoes. He blinked, slightly dazed. If that was your response to honesty, he should consider having no filter around you more often. 

You sighed and peeked up again, looking remorseful. “I should go. I have a ton of work to do.”

“Yeah, of course, me too.”

Neither of you moved. 

Finally, after a long moment, you grabbed your bag and started towards the hallway. Then paused. “Text me later?” And oh, you looked nervous. That wouldn’t do. 

Quickly, he pulled out his phone again and shot you a quick text. Your phone vibrated in your bag. 

“So you have my number.” Now he looked away, embarrassed by his own eagerness. Not regretful, though. Not when you looked so pleased. “I don’t get off till late, but message me on how your car is?”

In a few steps, you crossed the room and press a quick kiss to his cheek, as if unable to stop yourself. Then, you turned and hurry out of the room, as if forcing yourself to not turn around. He watched you leave, all the way out of the ER, ignoring Trinity as she slid up to him in a way he can only describe as evil. 

His phone went off less than an hour later with a message: a picture of a totaled car and a frowny face. He sent back a frowny face, and then a Google Maps link to a coffee shop between the hospital and the university. The barrage of heart emojis that followed felt like the way his own flipped around in his chest. 

[mercury-retrogay]

…for I am the Lord who heals you

Jack Abbot & his child! reader (gender neutral)

Summary: Tragedy often forces action. After Jack Abbot lost his wife, he tried to raise his kid the best he could, now as a single father. And he got damn lucky with the one he got. So when you're invited to go to Pitt Fest with your friends, he isn't overly worried about you making bad choices. But it was never your choices he should have worried about.

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Depictions of a shooting, injuries, first aid and medical produces (nothing too graphic, I think), grief, mourning, parent loss, fear of dying, fear of losing your child, talks of trauma, mentions of not believing in a god, praying, reader is described as being interested in medicine (mostly as a coping mechanism), maybe a light hint of Rabbot but shhhh, I think that's it-

Notes: First fic for The Pitt so let's hope this is decent and I didn't make it too OC- Happened to finish this fic first, but the other from the poll shall be out soon. I'm not quite happy with it, but it' s been awhile since I've written anything close to action lol so. Comments always appreciated!

It breaks people apart and pulls them together into something new when it's done. Most of the time, all you can do is hold onto the people you love and hope that when you make it out the other side, you're still together. 

Jack Abbot had been in therapy for as long as you could remember, which means something when you've known the man your whole life. It was him who had insisted you go to therapy after your mom passed, despite the overwhelming force of his own grief. 

There was a period of time when you were terrified you’d never be whole again. Desperate to act strong and not put extra weight on your dad’s shoulders. He didn’t need more on top of his job, the grief, PTSD, and now being a single parent. It felt like he was watching you for when you’d finally break down. 

And, of course, he had been thinking the same as you, trying to hold it together for his kid after they lost their mom and were left alone with their mess of a father. 

You moved out of your childhood home, unable to keep looking for ghosts. You attended therapy, separately, and then together. You ended up losing nearly all your friends. You opened up, finally, sobbing in some mixture of grief and shame, after trying so hard to keep it together. You also gained a relationship with your father that would make any other teen so embarrassed they’d skip town. You started to make new friends, people who saw you as more than just the kid with the dead mom. 

The grief didn’t shrink, but you started to grow around it. Let the new mix with the old and make something worth saving. 

When you came home one day and mention an invite to Pitt Fest with your friends, you expect uncertainty. Jack Abbot is a good dad. He’s your favourite person in the world, even if you never plan to say that to his face. He is also undeniably protective, and Pitt Fest would be large, crowded, and packed with poor decision-making. 

Instead, he encouraged you. Said he was proud you're going out and connecting with others and having fun, in a roundabout way. And that was that. 

With the promise you’d call him on your way home before he started his shift, you went to the festival a few weeks later. 

And everything, as it tends to do when you look away for too long, went wrong. 

—

He’d called three times. You didn’t pick up. 

It was stupid, but as he shoved the car keys into the ignition, he contemplated driving towards the festival. To go and find you. 

But it wasn’t feasible. It was across town. Even if he managed to somehow get close, it would be chaos, all those faces a blur in the crowd. And there’s no way they’d let him on a scene that's not secured. 

Everyone who wasn’t injured would be held on site and questioned by police before being released. Injuries to be sent to the PTMC. The deceased was… something he couldn’t think about, right now. 

“...then I can’t pick up right now, so text me like a normal person! Or leave a message, and I’ll text you. Bye!”

A beep. He sucked in an abnormally shaky breath. 

“Hey. I need you to call me back asap. Let me know you’re okay. If you can, come to the Pitt, okay? I love you. I love you, and-” His voice breaks off. What else could he say? “Call me. See you soon.” 

Jack didn’t make it to the nurse's desk before Robby was on him, and it's true he’d bitch at Robby all day long, but there are very few people he’d like to see more, right now. Just one, really.

A hug he could barely remember. A speech. Dana pulled him to the side. 

“The kid. They’re at Pitt Fest?”

Leave it to Dana not to beat around the bush. Not that there was time to, now. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I… Haven't heard from them yet.” Watching the way Dana’s face fell made it too real. 

Suddenly, he wanted to go find Robby again. Robby and Jack were good at ignoring things, or better said, talking around them. Leaving space. Robby understood that Jack needed to be strong right now and keep his shit together. He couldn’t talk about how his kid, his fucking kid, might be dead or hurt, and he can’t do a damn thing about it-

And Dana must’ve seen that on his face because she pulled him in for a brief hug, promised to try and call you when she tried Jake, and moved along to help prep carts. 

He has a good kid. A smart one. And so strong, even when they shouldn't have to be. The best child someone could ask for, even if all parents say that. He’d gotten damn lucky. 

Jack Abbot hasn't believed in a god for a long time, or at least not a kind one who shows mercy. And yet…

He uttered a prayer under his breath, barely a whisper. Please. Please. 

Then he finished setting up his kit, steadied his breathing, and did his job. 

—

You had your first aid certification. 

It was something you’d wanted, though you're sure your dad would have asked you to get it eventually. 

You took the highest level courses they’d let you take at 16. You read books on a variety of medicine. Harassed your dad about resources and volunteered at the cancer clinic during the summers. 

At first, it was an expression of grief. A way feel in control after mom. To feel like you could stop death if you faced it again. Then, with time, it had become a new way to talk to your dad, to complain about how weirdly the human body worked and ask about recent studies. 

But nothing could ever have prepared you for this. 

The gunshots came quickly. The screaming came faster, somehow. 

You were off by yourself, attempting to find a stall with water cheaper than $6 (fucking festival prices, and they won't even let you take more than one bottle in with you). Suddenly, you were slammed into the side of a tent, almost falling through the tarp as people rushed past. 

Everything started moving very fast. 

Not fireworks. Not fireworks. Gunshots. Someone was shooting at the festival. 

You were going to die. 

Closer to the stage entrance, someone went down, hard. Her leg folded underneath her unnaturally as she was shoved into the dirt. A young woman, maybe a few years older than you. She was going to get trampled if someone didn’t help her. If she didn’t get shot first. 

She was going to die. 

Your brain felt blank, suddenly. 

Adrenaline, a distant voice in your head whispered. It’s hell of a drug. Makes people do all kinds of crazy things. 

She was going to die if no one helped her. 

The plastic tent cover brushed your leg. Somehow, you were standing halfway in it, foot through where the bottom had come untucked. When had you done that?

She was going to die if you didn’t help her. 

You were moving before you realized the decision had been made. 

She was pale and unconscious when you got to her. The crowd started to disperse further away from the stage. You shouldn't move her if there were a risk of spinal trauma, but the scene was far from secure. 

Hoisting your arms under her armpits and clasping your hands together in front of her chest, you pulled, dragging her back into the tent you’d fallen onto earlier. It was abandoned, of course. Anyone with a lick of sense is running away right now. 

There’s my brave kid. The sting of disinfectant on your knee. A dinosaur bandied. A kiss on the head. 

ABC. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. 

You tilted her head back. She had eyeshadow that was shaped like a butterfly. Her lips were painted the same colour as the wings. Lift the chin. Her airway was clear, breath steady against your cheek. 

At least someone was relaxed. 

Her leg was twisted all wrong, but you couldn’t fix that now. You patted down her body. Multiple open wounds, but they seemed minor enough. The blood had begun to cover your hands and arms, soaking into the knees of your pants. She had hit her head, surely, but a concussion was the least of anyone's worries right now. The stomach and chest didn’t feel hard or distended, so hopefully no internal bleeding. 

God. Oh shit, you needed to get out of here. You needed to get both of you out of here. 

Deep breaths, honey. A soccer game. Most of the team was older than you. New, bright green shin pads. You got this. 

You needed help to get her out of here. 

Before you were fully standing, your left leg gave out beneath you suddenly, pitching you into the dirt. 

There was no pain. It felt as if your leg just… gave out. For a blissful moment, you wondered if maybe your leg had fallen asleep from kneeling so long. 

When you pushed yourself up on your elbows and started to pull your knees beneath you, it was a genuine surprise to look down and see the bullet hole. 

It was small. Smaller than you’d thought a bullet hole would be. You’d thought it would bleed less, too, somehow. Your ears rang. 

Outside the tent, noise filtered in. A popping noise, random and sporadic. It was getting impossibly closer.

Hide and seek again? Alright, alright, fine! A deep laugh. The air smelled like blueberry pancakes. I’m seeking this time. Can’t try to fit myself behind the couch with my knees, honey. 

You forced your body to go limp and held your breath. 

There were footsteps outside. Help or another bullet? You couldn’t tell how visible you were from the doorway. If someone could tell you were still alive.

1… 2… 3… 4… 5… 6… 7… 8… 9… 10…

At 80, you had to breathe. You couldn’t just lie here and wait to bleed out. 

Ready or not, here I come!

You slowly exhaled. Shifted an arm. A leg. That should hurt, right? A bullet wound should definitely hurt. 

Fight or flight, fight or flight. You couldn’t do either, like this. 

The woman was still non-responsive. A distant part of you screamed in envy. 

This wasn’t fair. You wanted someone to help you. 

You wanted your dad to make it better. 

Your belt was slick with blood when you took it off your waist. 

Stop the bleeding. You had to stop the bleeding.

They told you how much force a tourniquet takes. The answer is “more than you think it should.” How it could be so painful for the casualty, they sometimes would try to fight back, even knowing they’d die without it. None of this knowledge helped in that moment as you failed to stop the scream that slipped out. 

Your hands shook. 

Pull harder. You jerked the belt suddenly, forcing the prong through the fake leather, far higher than any of the other holes. 

Cheap garbage. Thank god for modern fashion. 

It hurt. The shock must’ve been starting to wear off. The belt wasn’t tight enough, either. But you couldn’t force yourself to take it off and try again. 

Get help. One of the most important steps in emergency response. Contact help. 

Distantly, you spare a thought for your friends. They’d been near the washrooms when you’d split up. You hope they’re nowhere near here. 

The shots had stopped. The gunman must have moved further away again. Or was out of bullets. Or was hiding. 

Staggering to your feet and limping towards the entrance of the tent, you distantly wondered about family resemblance and wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or scream. 

Dad got hurt at work, and now I only have one leg. A pause. Yeah, but I still get around okay. Gotta be able to get up so I can go eat all the cake by myself, right? Hey, come back here-

There was an older man near the entrance of the tent, on the ground, moaning in pain. He had a gunshot wound in his right shoulder and a festival staff ID pinned to the other. 

You want to keep walking. You needed help. So did the lady in the tent. 

But she was currently stable. And you both looked to be in far better shape than he was. 

He looked up at you, forehead sweaty, eyes glazed. 

It hurt when you knelt next to him. 

“I’m first aid trained. I… I’m here to help.”

—

It was Shen who received the ambulance you arrived in. 

One of the last ones, the paramedic promised. 

They were probably right, though. The shooter was gone, dead. Took the easy way out. Jack wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He wasn’t sure he had much room for feeling anything at the moment.

There had been no word from you. And the last of the injured were here. The rest of the festival-goers were either unharmed or dead. 

Later, he’d ask Shen and the paramedics for the full story. It wasn’t a long one. 

They had found a kid way in the merchandise stalls. It was how it took so long to find them and get them out. They had been doing first aid on a man and pointed EMS to a tent with an unconscious woman. The kid had refused to be treated until they took the other casualties first, and had practically collapsed into the back of the ambulance. 

It was Jack Abbot’s kid, which was what they didn’t say. They couldn’t have known, of course. But Shen had. He bought you the damn band shirt you were wearing for your last birthday. It wasn’t red, then. 

“Oh fuck.”

You blinked up at him from the gurney. 

“Oh. Nice to see you, too.”

It was his name, called by Shen in a way that is too stressed to come from Shen of all people, that caused his head to jerk up so fast the room shook. Dehydration. Blood loss, maybe. Definitely stress.

“We got the kid.” Jack was across the floor and at your side so fast he didn’t remember moving, only that Langdon took over for him and finished some sutures.  

You were in a gurney, drenched in blood, and he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t fucking breathe, but he had to, because you looked up at him and there was blood streaked across your damn face, his baby, oh god-

“Dad.” 

It wasn’t a question. An observation, maybe. It sounded more like a plea to Jack. 

He needed to stay calm. Instead, what slipped out is “oh god.”

Shen injected an IV in your arm. Mohan pushed him closer to your head. He went to reach for a blood bag, and Robby was beside him. Bless him, Robby was taking over primary patient care without any questions, which was for the best. 

Jack was good at acting under pressure, had saved lives while bombs blew behind him- but this was his kid. And he needed help. 

“Most of it isn’t mine,” You whispered, and it took him a moment to realize what you were talking about. The blood. Most of it wasn’t yours. 

No head injury. No spinal. Not internal bleeding. Impaired by blood loss and, now, the pain meds. The main source of blood loss is from a gunshot wound. In your leg. 

Someone shot his kid. 

“Dad?” 

And the world rushed back. 

“It's okay, honey. We got you. We’re gonna patch you up,” he soothed, attempting to focus on what he should be doing. To ignore how none of this should be happening in the first place. “You're okay. You're okay, I'm right here.”

Shen started a heavier painkiller on the IV. You shouldn't be awake for this. 

Still, watching you fight to stay awake made him want to start screaming. 

“Okay…” It was barely a whisper. 

He shouldn't have been able to hear it over all the commotion. He did, of course. Jack was always listening for you. 

“I love you.”

This was all so fucked up. 

“I love you too. It’s okay. You can sleep.”

Your eyes slipped shut. He got to work. 

—

When you woke up, it was a slow process. The world felt thick, like molasses. You opened your eyes, the ceiling familiar. 

Your throat was so dry it hurt. 

A machine beside you beeped steadily. An IV drip sat beside it. Your dad sat beside both, charting silently. His whole body jerked when you attempted to clear your throat. 

You stared at each other for a long moment. 

Slowly, he reached beside your bed and grabbed a cup of water with a straw, holding it up to your mouth. You sip lightly. 

Water had never tasted better. 

He set the cup back beside him, then grabbed your hand. 

“Hi, baby.”

It should have felt wrong to smile after everything. And yet, you do. “Hi, Dad.”

He had been crying. You could tell. You hoped someone was around, but you know he wouldn’t allow himself to break down within view. Unless it was Robby, maybe. Robby was here earlier, right? You’d seen him. He’d spoken to you. 

“My therapist is gonna have her hands full next session, huh.”

And now he was smiling, too, though it was the saddest smile you’d ever seen. You didn’t have to look at it for long, though, because he hugged you. It was awkward, with the wires and the hospital bed. His hands were shaking. It was amazingly perfect. 

“I love you. I love you so much, okay? Fuck…” He sounded choked up above you, and you would cry yourself if you could. It all seemed so distant right now. The tears would come with time, you knew. He'd be there when they do. 

“Paramedics told me some of what happened,” He pulled back, stroking a hand through your hair as he sat down. “I’m so proud of you. You were so brave. And I love you so, so much.’

Oh. At the festival. The woman and her bent leg and her butterfly makeup. The man who worked at the festival and wouldn't stop bleeding. 

Leaning into his hand, you croaked out, “You helped me do it.” 

And that didn’t make sense, really. You wanted to explain further. How you had remembered to use your belt. First Aid training. Hide and seek. But the world was still moving slowly, all wrong. And you were tired. And you had time to explain later. You had time. 

“Sleep?” He was still staring at you, so soft, as he adjusted the blankets on you. There were at least three, piled on the bed, and one of Robby’s sweaters on top. 

“Yeah, yeah, of course. Go to sleep. I'll be here.”

As your eyes slid closed, his palm ran soothingly up and down your arm. Distantly, you remembered you didn’t say I love you back. 

The hand ghosted over your IV site, checking for tension or shifting.

It was okay. He knew.

[catbayunthestoryteller]

Imitation of an Angel, picture of holiness

Pairing: Alastor x f!reader

Summary: Alastor and the reader were married in life. Then he got killed. They're reunited when the reader gets sent in hell but her appearance as a sinner eerily resembles angels in heaven.

You had loved him without knowing.

That had been the cruelty of it.

In life, he had been a gentleman. Charming, polished, well-spoken. The sort of man neighbors admired and trusted. The sort that old ladies complimented and young couples tried to imitate. He held doors, kissed your knuckles, brought home fresh bread on Sundays, and danced with you in the kitchen when the record player crackled to life.

He never raised his voice at you.

Never raised a hand.

And he never told you what he did when he left the house at night.

You only found out after he died.

They found him in the woods, mistaken for a deer by some drunk hunter, they said. Wrong place, wrong time. A clean shot. He died alone, not in your arms, not in his bed, but in the dirt, with leaves sticking to his blood.

The papers came after.

His name was everywhere.

Not just as a victim.

But as a monster.

Headlines snarled about him. Serial killer. Missing persons. Decades of unsolved cases suddenly stitched together like a grotesque quilt, and he was the thread running through all of them.

And you were his wife.

“Did you know?” they asked you.

Again and again.

That question haunted you more than his smile ever had.

Did you know?

Did you know?

Did you know?

You didn’t.

But you had stayed.

Even after courtrooms. Even after stares in the streets. Even after his belongings were torn apart for evidence.

You kept the ring.

And when you died, long after the world had decided what he was — you didn’t wake to pearly gates.

You woke to fire.

To red skies.

To screaming.

You woke to Hell.

Alastor had never imagined you would follow him there.

He hadn’t expected Heaven, of course, not for himself. But for you? You had been an angel walking among mortals. You had smiled at strangers, treated him with kindness even when the world had turned on you because of his sins.

You should have been rewarded for that.

But Hell had a twisted sense of humor.

He spent years convinced you were safe somewhere above: untouchable, unreachable, forever beyond his bloody hands.

He missed you anyway.

Sometimes, when the Pentagram City chaos dulled just enough, he imagined you walking through clouds instead of ash. Imagined you laughing again. Imagined you learning peace without him dragging it down.

He told himself that was better.

Even when it burned.

Even when it felt like rot.

Then one day, Hell buzzed.

Not just with violence, that was constant. No, this buzz was different. Excited. Greedy. Sharp.

A sinner had landed.

Not just any sinner.

An angel-looking one.

Whispers traveled faster than gunfire.

“She’s got wings,” they said.

“Not exterminator wings,” someone muttered. “But close.”

“She looks like Heaven but smells like Hell.”

The Vees heard first, of course.

They always did.

Vox saw a brand. A spectacle. Something new to broadcast and twist into entertainment.

Valentino saw profit - flesh and fantasy dressed in false holiness.

Velvette saw a trend - something unreal, something dangerous, something that would make Hell click “share.”

They crowded around you like vultures in designer clothes.

And you stood there, confused, shaken, white-feathered wings trembling behind you, still dressed like a soul that hadn’t realized it was damned.

“You wanna be safe?” Vox asked, his screen flashing blue and red. “You stick with us.”

“You’re a walking fetish, sweetheart,” Valentino purred, smoke curling from his fingers. “We’ll make you legendary.”

“We can make you untouchable online,” Velvette added, smiling sharp. “But you gotta play smart.”

They framed it like an offer.

But you could feel the leash already tightening.

And that was when the air changed.

The static came before he did.

A low hum. A familiar crackle.

Like an old radio station sliding back onto a long-lost signal.

The crowd shifted.

They always did when he arrived.

Red eyes. Antlers. Smile too wide to belong to a sane being.

Alastor stepped through the parted crowd like he owned the ground beneath it.

And when he saw you?

For one terrible second, the world stopped.

Not in a poetic way.

In a violent way.

The air warped.

The shadows froze.

His smile flickered, not gone, never gone, but strained, like cracked porcelain trying to hold.

“…Darling?” he said softly.

You stared.

Because you knew that voice.

You’d heard it across dinner tables. Through laughter. Through lullabies hummed when the world felt too loud. Through radio, most importantly, because now his voice carried static on its own.

“You,” you breathed.

His gaze traced you: your face, your hands, your wings.

Wings.

The irony was cruel, even by Hell’s standards.

“I always knew you had a touch of the divine,” he said lightly. “I didn’t expect Hell to agree.”

Vox recovered first. “Whoa, whoa, whoa...you know her?”

Alastor smiled wider.

“That,” he said, “is my wife.”

Silence cracked.

Valentino blinked.

Velvette stilled.

Vox’s screen glitched.

You didn’t have time to react before a cane tipped up, his shadow curling unnaturally, and the space around you bent.

One second, their voices were in your ears.

The next, everything vanished.

You were inside the Hazbin Hotel.

An old couch. The warm colors. The fake hope clinging to its walls.

He had set you down carefully, like you were made of something fragile rather than dead.

“They will not touch you,” he said immediately. “Not while you’re here.”

You stepped back. Your wings rustled.

“Don’t,” you said. Your voice shook now. “Don’t pretend like nothing happened. I know what you were. I know now.”

His smile softened, just slightly.

“I had hoped,” he admitted, “you’d never have to find out.”

“You let me mourn you,” you snapped. “You let me defend you when they called you a monster.”

“And I will let myself burn for that,” he replied calmly. “But not let them have you.”

You laughed bitterly. “You’re not doing this for me. You’re doing it because you want to own me.”

His eyes darkened.

“You were never owned.”

He stepped closer.

“But you were loved. Are loved. And Hell doesn’t get to take that from me as punishment.”

“You killed people,” you whispered.

“Yes,” he agreed, without flinching.

“And you never told me.”

He tilted his head.

“No,” he said. “Because I wanted at least one thing in my life to be innocent.”

Your throat tightened.

Your wings stirred behind you, unsure.

“And now look at you,” he added gently. “Hell’s little joke. Giving you feathers when all you ever did was bleed for me.”

Silence wrapped around you.

He didn’t reach for you.

Just stood there, as he always had, waiting.

“I don’t trust you,” you said finally.

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he answered. “But you will stay. The Vees won’t let a creature like you go without trying again.”

“And if I refuse?”

His smile regained its edge.

“Then I shall continue fussing over you until you’re tired of fighting it,” he said cheerfully. “Just like I used to with your cold feet in winter.”

Your breath hitched despite yourself.

…He remembered everything.

“Come now,” he added more softly, offering his hand. “Let your monstrous husband keep you safe a little longer.”

And even with all your fear.

Even with the truth clawing at your heart.

You still recognized the way his thumb hovered at your knuckles, just like it always had.

The lobby had gone silent when he led you down the staircase.

You didn’t remember ever walking beside him feeling so much space between your bodies.

Even in life, when you argued, when doors slammed and pride stood tall between you, there had always been something warm tethering you together. A gravity. Something unspoken that kept pulling you back.

Now there was distance laced with danger, curiosity, fear.

Every eye in the Hazbin Hotel followed the two of you.

Charlie froze mid-sentence, smile softening with surprise.

Vaggie’s hand drifted instinctively closer to her spear.

Angel Dust looked you up and down, whistling low.

Husk blinked slowly from the bar like he was trying to decide if you were real or another hallucination from cheap booze.

Niffty had already practically teleported next to you, sparkling-eyed.

Alastor gestured to you with a flourish of his cane.

“Everyone,” he announced, voice carrying through the room like a radio broadcast from an older, more dangerous era, “this is my dear wife.”

Dead silence.

Then...

“Well, isn’t this just precious,” Angel drawled. “Didn’t know you were the marrying type, spooky.”

“Only once,” Alastor replied pleasantly.

“You’re his what?” Husk muttered.

“Was his wife,” you corrected automatically, voice dry.

“Is,” Alastor returned smoothly. “Death is merely a minor inconvenience in that regard.”

Charlie blinked, then brightened instantly. “Hi! Hi, oh my gosh, hi! It’s so nice to meet you! I’m Charlie. I own the hotel and...and we’re trying to help people get into Heaven. Redemption and all that!”

You hesitated.

Something inside you tightened.

Because that…That had struck something painfully human in your chest.

“Heaven?” you repeated.

“Yes,” she said warmly. “Some of us believe sinners can be redeemed. It’s not impossible.”

Your fingers curled slightly.

You thought of your life.

Of the people you forgave instead of fighting.

Of the way you stood beside him even after the world collapsed around you.

“I don’t think I belong in hell,” you said quietly.

The room went still again.

And this time, Alastor didn’t interrupt.

Charlie’s eyes softened.

“Well,” she said gently, “that’s exactly why you should stay.”

You swallowed.

And then Alastor spoke again, far more casually than the moment deserved.

“She will be,” he said, “staying in my room.”

The silence was no longer shock.

It was alarm.

Angel choked on his gum.

Husk raised a brow.

Vaggie’s eye twitched.

“In your...” Charlie started.

“My room,” he repeated. “It is already sufficiently large. And significantly better protected.”

You stiffened beside him.

“And what if I don’t want that?” you asked under your breath.

“You do,” he murmured back. “Even if only temporarily.”

His smile stayed fixed, polished, controlled, but there was something just beneath it that hadn’t existed before. Something desperate.

Charlie hesitated only a second before nodding. “Okay. Yeah. Um. That’s fine. As long as you’re comfortable.”

You weren’t. But you also weren’t about to continue arguing in public. So you just nodded once. And he guided you away.

His room smelled strangely familiar.

Like old paper. Like dust caught in sunlight. Like static after rain.

The same tidy precision he always carried with him extended here, books stacked, cane placed perfectly against the wall, gramophone resting like a relic of another world.

Except now there were claw marks in the furniture.

And shadows that moved when they shouldn’t.

You stood near the door, wings shifting uncertainly behind you.

They felt…heavy.

And wrong.

You tried to fold them, but the unfamiliar weight threw off your balance. You stumbled slightly, catching yourself on the back of a chair.

Alastor was instantly there.

“Careful now,” he said, hands hovering just close enough to catch you without touching.

“I don’t know how to use these,” you muttered.

“Well,” he replied, “I have had to adjust to antlers, hooves, and an infuriatingly expressive tail. You’ll manage feathers.”

Still, his voice softened.

“You never cared much for balance in dancing either,” he added, teasing gently. “Yet you always insisted on leading.”

You huffed a weak laugh despite yourself.

“You complained about that forever.”

“And I survived,” he said. “A small miracle.”

You tried folding them again.

Slower this time.

They trembled.

Your hands moved instinctively to smooth them, fingertips brushing along the feathers as if checking if they were real.

They were.

“You think I don’t belong here,” you said quietly.

He stilled behind you.

“I think,” he answered, “Hell is inefficient at deciding who deserves what.”

“That’s a very polite way of saying their system is broken.”

He chuckled softly, the sound layered with static.

“I always told you bureaucracy was the greatest evil of all,” he replied.

Then, after a moment:

“You do want their little redemption plan, don’t you?”

You nodded hesitantly.

“I don’t want to spend eternity surrounded by murderers and…other demons,” you admitted.

A grin curved his mouth.

“Well,” he drawled, “that ship has regrettably sailed, darling.”

You glared slightly over your shoulder.

“I meant worse ones.”

He laughed.

A real one this time.

You turned more fully toward him. He looked different, monstrous, taller somehow, sharper around the edges.

More honest.

“You’re trying very hard,” you said.

He tilted his head.

“To do what?”

“To show me you’re the same man.”

His eyes softened just a fraction.

“I am,” he said.

Then his gaze darkened.

“I merely look closer to the truth now.”

You swallowed.

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“Oh, I rather enjoy it,” he replied. “It’s quite liberating, actually. No more polite pretending. No more hiding the mess beneath the suit.”

Then, more quietly:

“You loved me before you ever knew.”

Your chest pulled tight.

“And now you know everything,” he continued, stepping closer, careful not to crowd you. “And I will not force you to love me now.”

A long beat of silence.

Then, softer, almost hesitant:

“But I will still take care of you. Whether you deserve Hell or Heaven.”

Your wings stilled.

You searched his face, the familiar smile, the unfamiliar monster, the same eyes that once watched you across candlelit dinners.

“…You’ve always been like this,” you said. “Doting, I mean.”

“I prefer the term devoted,” he replied.

Representative. Elegant.

Terrifying.

And heartbreakingly, horribly yours.

He reached up slowly, giving you all the time in the world to stop him, and gently tucked a stray feather back into place.

His touch was careful.

Like he was still afraid you might disappear.

“And until Heaven decides it wants you,” he added quietly, “you’ll have me.”

[cryptidghostgirl]

Alastor x Reader Master List

My Alastor list is getting crazy long so I am giving it it's own post just so my big Hazbin Hotel Master List doesn't get too confusing.

Other Master Lists:

Master Lists 

Hazbin Hotel Master List 

Click here and leave a comment if you want to be added to any taglists or send me an ask about it.

List of Things I Won't Write

Series are marked in purple

Requests are marked in pink

Suggestive are marked in orange

Make You Wish Master List -> Y/n has known Alastor since she first ended up in Hell. When he disappeared? She thought her life was over. Seven years have passed since then and slowly but surely, the 1950s housewife turned murderer has made a life for herself, full of good decisions and some bad ones. What will happen when Alastor turns back up again, sending the world as she has made it into chaos once again?

What Can I Do For You (Alastor x Reader) → What if the deal Alastor made that is controlling his power was with Y/n?

Understand (Dark!Alastor x Exorcist!Reader) → Y/n has been using the exterminations as a way to try and search for the soul of her earthly husband for years. What happens when she actually succeeds in finding him?

→ Caged Bird (Dark!Alastor x Exorcist!Reader) -> Reader wakes up in Alastor's room at the Hotel after the events of Understand.

Wrath (Alastor x Overlord!Spouse!Reader) → Y/n’s anger in finding that after seven years, their husband has returned to Pentagram City and decided not to tell them.

Unrequited (Alastor x Reader) → It is too late for him to change things now. It doesn't matter what else has happened, that he's gotten to know her, seen her light. Some broken things can never be fixed. 'You came' 'you called' but make it sad.

→ Unrequited Pt. 2 -> Reader steps in when Alastor is attacking Husk.

→ Unrequited Pt. 3 -> Alastor refuses to let Y/n be present for the battle against Heaven and will do whatever it takes to keep her safe, even if she hates him for it.

→ Unrequited Pt. 4 -> Having been trapped in Alastor's old radio tower, Y/n ponders the threat of the angels and the nature of her relationships. That is, until Alastor appears with a gash across his chest.

Fuel and the Fire (Alastor x Wife!Partner-in-Crime!Reader) → Alastor and Y/n have a deal with Lilith where until a soul is redeemed at Charlie’s hotel, Y/n is under her control. Alastor will do whatever it takes to get his wife back, but that doesn’t mean he won't get a little sad a lonely along the way.

Loving You (Alastor x Gn!Reader) → Valentine's day special :) The story of how Alastor and Y/n realized they had feelings for one another.

Sweet (Alastor x Chubby!Reader) → Hurt//comfort. A random demon insults the reader and Alastor comes to comfort her, later dealing with the demon in a typically Alastor way of handling such a crime.

Cover Up (Human!Alastor x Human!Reader) → Fake dating trope. Y/n and Alastor met when they tried to kill one another, how could they not end up at least a little bit in love?

-> Cover Up pt. 2

→ Cover Up pt. 3

Till Death Do Us Part (Alastor x Mad Scientist!Reader) → Y/n just wants to watch the world burn. Being married was a boon at first but later, rather inconvenient. When she died, she did everything she could to avoid her husband and continue her work but fate had other plans.

→ Till Death Do Us Part pt. 2

→ Till Death do us Part pt. 3

Prepare for Battle (Platonic!Alastor x Platonic!Cat Demon!Reader) → Alastor and Y/n have been engaged in a prank battle for decades. What happens when just a few days after Alastor reappears in the Pride ring, Y/n joins him at the Hazbin Hotel?

Rhapsody Master List → Gn!Reader. Alastor and Y/n have been taking down the overlords of Hell together for years but Y/n has had a secret and Alastor knows it. They each go their separate ways because of this but what happens when years later their paths intersect once again. Loosely inspired by Raine and Eda in The Owl House.

The Guilt (Alastor x Reader) → Y/n was the one person he never meant to kill, but Alastor didn't have a choice. Years later, much to his surprise, they run into one another in the depths of Pentagram City.

Pretty Bunny (Alastor x Chubby!Rabbit Demon!Reader) → Alastor catches Angel and Y/n getting ready for a night out and stops Y/n from going. Hurt/comfort.

I Myself am Strange and Unusual (Alastor x Living!Addams family!Reader x Lucifer) → Y/n is bored and summons some demons. 

The Love (Alastor x Reader) → Alastor is drunk and Charlie asks him if he has ever been in love.

Frostbite (Alastor x Reader) → History repeats itself in odd and uninvited ways. Life cycles on even in death.

→ Day Lilies (Alastor x Blizzard demon!Reader x Angel!OC)

Humanity's Most Favored Fantasy (Alastor x Reader) → It wasn't love. Alastor didn't feel love, not anymore. He'd lost that part of himself the day he died so it couldn't be love, could it?

→ Humanity's Most Favored Fantasy pt. 2

Mishap of Magic (Alastor x Chubby!Rabbit Demon!Reader) → Alastor’s magic backfires and Y/n is there to help. Who would have guessed that a situation such as this would give him the last push he needed to tell her how he felt? 

Destruction//Creation (Vox x Alastor's Ex!Reader x Alastor) → Alastor refuses to let the past die and Y/n would rather pretend it never existed.

The Thing (Alastor x Gn!Reader) → Alastor meets his shadow.

Masquerade (Alastor x Angel!Exorcist!Reader) → Y/n is sent to the Hazbin Hotel as a spy.

Downfall (Alastor x Chubby!Rabbit Demon!Reader) → Y/n see’s Alastor talking to Rosie and thinks she is what he wants in a woman. Little does she know, he was meeting with Rosie to ask for advice on how to talk to Y/n.

What it Means to be a Person (Alastor x Cyborg!Reader) → Y/n gave an arm and a leg to the fight against the exterminators and feels she has lost her humanity by the bionic replacements Lucifer and Charlie gifted her in return. Alastor reminds her that not all is lost, she can still dance, after all.

Spicy Sienna and Berry Naughty (Alastor x Chubby!Gn!Reader!) → Alastor likes the fact that Y/n has begun matching their lipstick to their nail polish -- loves it, in fact. What he doesn’t like is that other people have started noticing. (this one is a bit… weird so I am marking it as suggestive.)

Burn (Human!Alastor x Human!Gn!Reader) → What happens when Alastor spots his ideal target, Mimzy’s newest hired talent? What happens when they evade his capture? What happens when, slowly, he begins to realize -- Alastor doesn’t want to kill them? At least, not anymore.

Drawing Down the Moon (Alastor x Ancient Roman!Witch!Reader) → Alastor reencounters an old friend.

O Fortuna (Alastor x Reader) → Alastor and Y/n had always been competitors locked in a silent and un-named war. Why would dying make that any different?

[bean00ll]

s2 e8 fight was so good

[lawfem]

THE SUN LOVES THE SEA .ᐟ

"Hiding your devil fruit from everyone is the only rule. Unless it's your crush."

Fem!reader

Characters: Monkey D. Luffy

Tags: fluff, angst, the timeline starts at Thriller Bark and contains spoilers up to Egghead, mention of Ace's death

Words count: 13k

Notes: Hi! English is not my first language, so let me know if you see any mistake, I would be very grateful <3

The sea obeyed your voice.

Its waters danced and whispered just for you, caressing your feet and soothing your pains, thrilling your soul with its gentle mirages that carried you back home. Pleased to embrace you in its waves once more. Pleased with your return.

The sea waited for you for centuries. Patient. Longing. Tearful.

No soul had been born who could tame its ferocity. The times were divine, rushing to shore without coinciding with him could be a catastrophe. So it forced itself to endure. To tolerate the pain. To tolerate the desire to see him again.

It remained hidden under the wing of a specific family, protected by them on a remote island in Grand Line, for centuries without being disturbed. They passed the word down from parents to children, grandparents to grandchildren. That devil fruit, kept in a locked chest, with its peculiar conch shell shape that glowed in shades of blue and light blue, was not to be consumed.

The fruit would choose its bearer. Like no other, it would sing to attract whoever it desired, until it made them carry an unknown destiny. Anyone who coveted it wrongly would be punished.

And everyone learned to respect it.

You had always been curious. Why was your family the only one who knew about its existence and could take care of it, when there were so many others on the island? Why couldn't anyone else even get close enough to appreciate it? What was known about that devil fruit was passed on by word of mouth. Your aunt had told you about its appearance during a festival in the village, while dancing with laughter, one jump after another, to the rhythm of "don, don, don, don", but she didn't know if it was real either. Someone else had told her about it.

Your grandmother wouldn't let anyone near the old temple on the highest hill on the island. The task of caring for it was relegated to a few women in the family, those who had the gift of hearing. Hearing what? You thought it was nonsense. How could anyone hear a fruit? As a child, you couldn't make sense of it.

But curiosity kept you awake.

And you understood everything at the age of seven.

A festival to an ancient god was being celebrated in the village. Sitting on a bench —a tree trunk cut down by your father—, you admired those present. There it was again. That rhythm. That dance. It was fun, it was playful, it was free. The huge smiles on their faces were something that only that dance could give.

The dance of Nika.

They did it once a month, as if trying to call him, intending him to join in the fun if he saw them, and something inside you told you that this god would do just that. He would join them with a huge laugh. And the party would never end.

But what was happening here was more than just a party. It was a plea. The people of your village and your family believed that he would return to save them. And someone important would come with him.

You shook your head from side to side, playing with the fabric of your white dress when you heard it.

A melancholic voice sang melodies that pressed on your heart. You were too young to understand the longing behind that song, the pain of loss. Its slowness differed from the joy in Nika's rhythm.

You covered your ears, not wanting to hear any more. But it was calling you. It was making you get up from your seat against your will.

Under the watchful gaze of your grandmother, whom you could not see through the sea of people, you made your way towards the forest. The old woman heard the crying in that song, more intense than ever. It was different from what it always whispered to her. Now it was crying out for you.

You followed the path with a grimace. It was lit by small golden lanterns shaped like flowers. Despite your fear of being scolded for entering the forbidden area, you couldn't help but follow that voice. Its broken song gradually changed, becoming a little more cheerful. Enough so as not to break your heart. You wondered if this is what the song of the sirens sounded like, the ones you read about in your book, the ones who lived on gyojin island.

You stopped in front of the temple. How many minutes had it taken you to climb the hill? You had lost track of time while enveloped in those melodies.

Seeing it up close took your breath away. Tall marble pillars surrounded by ivy stood before you. A glass dome revealed the interior of the place, making your blood run cold.

A golden statue of a woman stood in the middle, surrounded by water. Would you sink if you approached it? Or would it be shallow, free to walk towards it? That woman looked up at the sky with her back to you, her arms outstretched, her fingers curved as if touching something.

Was she singing? Could a statue sing? Or was it...? You searched with your eyes until you found it. A chest rested at her feet, surrounded by vines. As if it had never been touched before.

But something in that voice asked you to. Something in that woman's position begged you for something.

You dipped your tiny feet into the water and a sigh of relief escaped from within you when the water only reached your hips. For an adult, it would reach their knees or lower.

You walked across the slimy ground covered in seaweed, pouting in disgust. Your grandmother protected this place, but it seemed she didn't clean it, given its condition.

The singing grew softer as you got closer. The moonlight made the statue look more beautiful, but its golden colour would shine brighter in the sun.

When you reached its feet, which were in front of your face, you raised your hands to the vines, pulling them off one by one. The chest, once freed, looked old. Conveniently, a key lay beside it. You shook your head in confusion. No one had stolen it in centuries, and you had made it there without anyone stopping you. What were they afraid of? It was silly to fear a fruit. Surely it had some foolish power, like the men on the reward posters that arrived every week. There were a few incredible powers, but there were also fruits that seemed bad to you.

You inserted the key into the lock, opening the chest carefully so as not to break it. You widened your eyes in amazement when you saw it. It shone in shades of blue and light blue, shaped like a seashell. So this was what the devil's fruit looked like. You took it in your hands, not knowing that you were being allowed to do so. Not knowing that your destiny was being forged.

Standing by the island's beach, with the celebration behind her, your grandmother smiled softly. The clock was ticking again.

He had already been born and consumed his fruit, and he had chosen you at the same time to accompany him.

With the sudden violence of the sea that night, the people dancing merrily and a little girl spitting in a temple alone, the old woman welcomed the goddess of the sea.

The "Hito Hito no Mi, model: Naia" had chosen its bearer.

Your growth since that night had been quite an adventure. Your grandmother had told you things, like the name of the fruit and where it came from. The reason why your family had protected it for generations and generations finally had an answer. You were direct descendants of Naia, but the goddess was jealous and refused to choose a woman before the time. You didn't know who she was waiting for, and the old woman didn't have a concrete answer. Only old beliefs that had been instilled in her, which she couldn't vouch for as being true.

But if you were there, in front of her, surrounded by fish that seemed to be talking to you, then there was a chance that he was also in another sea.

The longer you lived in the village, the more miracles happened. The famine ceased with the increasing abundance of fish. Your unconscious attracted large fish and beasts from the Grand Line, which were hunted to feed the villagers. They ate through tears, thanking the sun god for his help, without knowing who was really responsible.

Ships began to stop there. After four years, your voice began to attract sailors, bounty hunters, and pirates. With their visits, the families around you were able to support themselves. The imminent improvement in the standard of living among these villagers caught the attention of the world government. An island was rising and should not remain outside their hands, living according to their laws. Abiding by the rules was the best they could do.

However, no one could accept it. The hatred in their hearts consumed them alive. These people were not the kind who wanted to be protected by the marine or receive the light of the world government by paying tribute. No. These people had their beliefs, beliefs that those above despised. Beliefs for which they would seek to silence them.

Your grandmother knew that your devil fruit would bring trouble. If the legends were true, the search for your existence would be relentless.

A woman with the ability to control the sea was an aberration to everyone who admired her. A forbidden existence hidden like a myth.

But myths had an origin and, in turn, someone who tried to destroy them.

As a very young girl, you had no control over the sea. The strong emotions he was unaccustomed to sent him into a frenzy. Your cries stirred up hurricanes, impossible to stop until your heart was calm again. Your anger violently shook the waves, your sudden outbursts calling forth tsunamis.

Their frequency was not something that the world government —who kept their eyes on the island that was suddenly making a name for itself— could ignore. Marines disguised as sailors or ordinary tourists came and went, reporting what they saw. Was that island changing its magnetic field? After centuries of maintaining the same one? Or was something beyond their control happening?

It was after a huge earthquake and a subsequent tsunami, one that was out of the ordinary, with waves so big that they flooded the coast and left the island without a port, that your grandmother made the decision to expel you. CP0 began prowling the area when you were seventeen. They walked around looking at all the women, with instructions to pay special attention to the youngest ones.

Any who showed abnormalities. Any who seemed to interact unnaturally with the sea. Any who talked to fish.

The one who could be the woman the five elders wanted desperately.

Your grandmother, your aunt, and your mother did everything in their power. Sooner or later, those government agents would find the temple to the goddess Naia, confirming the suspicions of the celestial dragons. That temple, that golden statue facing the sun, was the only one in the world.

Those who knew her believed she had died, leaving no trace of her passage through life, a woman who would never set foot in such a rotten place again. But there she was, laughing in their faces, always hidden, always waiting for the right moment to return.

The three women in your family knew that news of such magnitude would not sit well. Everyone was in danger, not just you. And they were willing to face them as long as they could be reunited.

Your mother pulled you by the hand, all of them covering their mouths to stifle their tired gasps. The forest was the village's domain, illuminated in every corner, trees marked to indicate the paths back home. Your aunt carried a bag of clothes and your grandmother led the way.

They came upon a flooded coastline. Four villagers were holding onto tree trunks, pulling on ropes tied to the boat to keep it steady. They had placed two barrels of provisions inside. You looked at everyone in alarm, not knowing what to say, not wanting to leave.

This island was your home. Everyone had watched you grow up. Why did you have to leave everything behind? Just because of an ancient legend that no one knew was real?

The old woman placed her hands on your cheeks after your aunt had wrapped the bag around your body.

"You must flee, child." She whispered.

You shook your head, frightened. Yes, your devil fruit seemed to control the sea, but you had never sailed. You had never gone out into the world. And you would not be going out onto a calm sea. You lived in Grand Line, and out there were fearsome pirates, the yonko sailed those waters.

"It's for your own good. And for the good of the world." She tucked your hair behind your ear with trembling hands. "One day you'll understand."

"I don't want to go." You whispered, looking at your mother pleadingly.

"It is Naia's will." Your grandmother called your attention again. "You, Y/N, must continue living."

Naia, that mythical goddess again. What did it matter if you were her chosen one for something you couldn't understand?

"Lie. Don't talk about your devil fruit. Don't reveal it to anyone. That way you can survive." Your mother's words squeezed your heart.

"Don't worry about us, we'll be fine." Your aunt said with a smile.

"Destiny will bring the two of you together." Murmured the older woman.

Her kisses on your forehead, the calm sea as the villagers lifted you onto the boat, their hands waving in the distance, your uncontrollable crying.

You didn't know how long you had cried as the small boat sailed on its own course. The sea remained calm around you as it carried you as far away as possible from your native island. An island where government agents searched relentlessly for a young woman who fit the description, interrogating and silently murdering those who refused to cooperate.

At some point, your eyes closed after crying for so long, each tear altering the sea around your island, unknowingly embracing the lifeless bodies of many girls you called your friends, as well as those of adults and elderly women. Among them, your family.

All protecting a goddess who would help a new dawn arrive.

Usopp prepared his bait, ready to catch something. They hadn't put anything in the aquarium for days. Luffy had put another shark in, and it had eaten all the fish, leaving them without provisions, without meat. Their captain was more unbearable than ever, and he had only gone a day and a half without eating meat.

He cast his line, humming his song as he tapped his feet. The sun burned his skin, and the sea seemed particularly calm that day. Would he catch anything if no fish came near the worms he had stolen from Robin's garden?

Zoro left his weight on the ground, opening the window of the crow's nest.

"Oi, there's something shining in the water." He announced.

Usopp raised his fishing rod, looking for his binoculars. Nami and Robin put down their magazines and books and stood up.

"Something shiny? Treasure?" Nami asked, smiling.

"I want to see!" Luffy shouted, opening the kitchen door. His rubber arms stretched out to the deck railing, throwing himself towards it to get there faster.

Robin smiled as she watched him jump up and down excitedly. Soon the others arrived, crowding around the railing. Chopper was lifted up by Zoro, who sat him on his shoulder so he could see better. Sanji stood next to them, smoking.

"We have to catch it!" Said Luffy.

"Oi, Luffy, wait." Usopp murmured, placing a hand on his shoulder. "First we need to see what it is from a distance."

"We can always throw it back into the sea." Added Robin.

"You're so scary!" Shouted Usopp.

"Luffy, bring that shiny thing over here." Ordered Nami to the rubber boy, looking excitedly at the glint in the distance.

The captain's arms stretched out as far as they could, pulling the small boat towards the Sunny Go at a speed that the sea offered no resistance to. Refusing to protect her from him.

"I see barrels!" Chopper shouted.

"Super!" Franky celebrated.

"Will they have food? I hope it's in good condition." Said Sanji.

"I hope it's treasure..." Nami said dreamily, clasping her hands together with a huge smile.

"I hope it doesn't kill us." Usopp lamented, thinking it was a trap.

"We can always throw it back into the sea." Robin repeated.

Luffy blinked, tilting his head to one side. Inside the boat was a girl, sleeping as if she weren't in the Grand Line. He pressed his lips together when he noticed the trail of tears on her cheeks. Her eyelashes were still wet, as if she had never stopped crying, even in her dreams.

"Chopper, we have to help her."

The seriousness in his tone alerted the crew. They looked closely, the sun no longer dazzling their eyes, revealing the figure trembling as she hugged a bag.

"We have to get her on board!" The crew's doctor ran to Franky after Zoro brought him down.

They all worked together without asking any questions yet.

There was a girl in their infirmary. A girl who had suddenly appeared amid those treacherous waters, sleeping as if she didn't care about the danger of her actions. A girl who was burning with fever while the little reindeer placed damp cloths on her forehead.

Sanji made tea for everyone while they waited for news from the doctor, curious about her identity.

"I checked her belongings. There was nothing with her name on it. Just clothes and food." Robin commented.

Nami tucked a strand of her short hair behind her ear and sighed.

"All we can do is wait for her to wake up."

"How did she survive?" Murmured Zoro, leaning against the kitchen wall with his arms crossed.

"It's a mystery. Falling asleep in Grand Line with all the pirates around who could have killed her..." Robin shook her head.

"Lucky we found her." Nami acknowledged.

Sanji was holding back, but the soft smile on his face and the multiple turns he made while serving tea told everyone how happy he was with the presence of another woman in the crew. The swordsman insulted him under his breath, earning himself a kick, and then starting a fight.

Everyone ignored them, accustomed to their behaviour. As the hours passed, uncertainty grew among those present. They continued with their activities while you were being treated. All that remained was to wait for you to wake up and tell them about yourself.

You opened your eyes slightly, looking around in confusion. It wasn't your boat. There was no captivating sky above you. There were no waves rocking your body to calm your crying.

You sat up a little on the examination table, leaning on one elbow. The two lamps that illuminated the area provided good lighting. On your left were two small shelves with bottles, their labels showing you the names of their contents. Medicines. Looking to your right, a single desk stood with more medical instruments. Laboratory tubes with different coloured caps, a stone mortar, many books and posters with drawings, from lungs to bones.

But what caught your attention most was the creature sitting in the chair. It looked like a stuffed animal. You had never seen anything like it on your home island.

"Oh! You're awake!" A shrill voice startled you.

Did that stuffed animal talk?

"What are you?" You asked, raising your eyebrows. "Can you talk? Where am I?"

"I'm the doctor for this crew." He climbed onto a stool next to you to examine you.

You seemed to be feeling better. Sanji could prepare something to boost your strength.

"A pirate crew?" You whispered fearfully.

The worst-case scenario was being captured by pirates. You mentally berated yourself for not being more careful. For falling asleep. For not begging harder to stay at home.

"Wait here." Said the little one, adjusting his tiny doctor’s coat as he left what looked like the infirmary.

You found him cute, but you weren’t going to admit it. You had to escape, not succumb to this creature. You found your sandals next to the examination table and put them on. You climbed down, making as little noise as possible, and opened the door again. You found yourself on the deck, its grass making you gasp, but you covered your mouth so as not to be discovered.

You had to survive. You had to hide. That's what your grandmother would have wanted. Your mother. Your aunt. They had all given you the chance to live. You just hoped they were all right.

You ran towards the deck in search of your boat, but growled when you didn't see it.

"Wait! Don't jump!" A female voice shouted behind you.

You turned around fearfully. A beautiful woman with short orange hair was approaching you slowly, careful not to scare you any more.

"I'm Nami. The navigator of this crew." She introduced herself with a sweet smile.

"Am I on a pirate ship?"

"We're not like other pirates." The woman assured you.

"We're good!" Shouted the doctor behind her. "And you shouldn't be out of bed. You could get sick again."

"My angel, allow this cook to be your slave and treat you like the princess you are." Said a man crouching in front of you with a bowl of soup. It smelled good. Did he say slave?

You blinked in confusion.

"Why don't you become my slave and, as your first order, jump off the ship?" Said a man with green hair and two katanas at his waist.

The blond's eyebrow twitched and he turned towards the swordsman, kicking him.

"You're going to scare her." Said a melodious voice. A woman with black hair and bangs looked at you with a sweet gaze.

"You're not going to kill us, are you?" Asked a man with a long nose hiding behind the black-haired girl.

"I thought you were going to kill me."

"Usopp is afraid of cockroaches. You could kill him with that before he tries anything." Teased the orange-haired girl.

"Oi, Nami, why are you telling her that!?"

You watched them interact for a few minutes. They were... funny. Like a little family. They didn't look like the pirates you read about in your books or in the newspaper. The dreaded Rocks D. Xebec, the mighty Whitebeard, the youngest yonko Shanks. They were all intimidating, with powerful crews, but these pirates were strange.

You smiled softly, unaware of the gaze of a certain rubber boy sitting on the lion's head.

His eyes, curious about the girl in front of him, tried to find something he had seen before. Some trace of those tears that soaked your cheeks, as if the pain you carried was greater than you wanted to show. What you hid inside you would one day explode, but until then, until you let him see it, he only wanted one thing from you.

"Join my crew!" He shouted from above. "That way you won't have to go on that little boat."

You looked up, and the air around you seemed unreachable, forbidding you to have it as you lost yourself in that smile, so bright as it melted into the setting sun.

It wasn't like you to trust so quickly. It wasn't like you to wander around with your eyes closed, without trying to figure out other people's intentions. But nothing in his gaze, in their gazes, showed you any hostility or malice. That young man who stood above everyone else as their captain had a calming aura. As if everyone would be fine by his side. As if even the greatest dangers could not disturb them with him by their side.

You knew you could have refused that day. Sailed alone until you found another island. But wherever you went, you would carry the danger with you.

And along with them, you discovered that the danger was represented by their captain.

On your first day after agreeing to join, everyone introduced themselves to you. The doctor was called Chopper, a cute blue-nosed reindeer who loved telling you medical facts, eating cotton candy, and hated the heat. He knew a lot about medicinal herbs and had an incredible dream.

The beautiful black-haired woman was Nico Robin, wanted by the World Government for being the only survivor of Ohara. She was an archaeologist and her knowledge of everything dazzled you. They told you that they had defied the World Government to save her life, and your heart beat faster.

If they knew that CP0 was after you, would they fight for you? Could you be that important to them?

The navigator, Nami, had been part of the crew from the beginning. She liked to buy pretty clothes and treasures. But what fascinated you most was her knowledge of the weather, her ability to anticipate the sea. You didn't need to announce the whispers of those waters if she could interpret them.

The long-nosed guy, Usopp, served as a sniper. His weapon confused you, forcing you to shut your mouth when you saw him use it. He never missed a single shot, always hitting the target. Nami and Robin would bet, and the short-haired girl always won because she trusted him.

The green-haired man was Roronoa Zoro, who had earned a reputation as a pirate hunter. He was serious and slept a lot, but when he laughed, he laughed heartily. He also had a strange obsession with annoying the blond man. The cook with the weird phrases and compliments, Sanji. His meals were a delicacy, and he had taken the time to ask you what your favourite was so he could make it and make you smile.

The man who only wore swimming trunks was the ship's carpenter, Franky. He had built the Sunny Go, and you considered it a work of art. You complimented the aquarium, and the area would possibly become your favourite.

And the captain, Monkey D. Luffy. That boy with his silly rubber devil fruit that made you smile. He was cheerful, playful, and funny. If everyone was here, he must be someone trustworthy.

Everything about him caught your attention.

As the days passed, you allowed yourself to feel comfortable around them. Perhaps this wasn't what your grandmother would have preferred, but if these people were enemies of the world government, then there was no safer place for you and your true identity.

No one could find a faceless girl with forbidden abilities, let alone imagine that she was now a pirate.

You told them what you could about yourself. Saying your name or talking about where you were born was not a challenge. These people did not judge you or pry into your past, not if it did not directly affect them. You discovered that they tolerated being mocked, but they did not tolerate anyone talking to or touching their friends. It was a silent respect for one another, a fondness that went beyond understanding. They were friends, they were where they needed to be. Where they belonged.

And just as everyone had their role in the crew, you couldn't really find yours.

They didn't force you to learn how to fight like an expert, but they wanted to teach you the basics so you could defend yourself.

You couldn't reveal the truth about your devil fruit. You had only mentioned that you had one, but you didn't know its powers. You had never used it to attack, as you had never been forced or needed to do so. You had never seen what it limited you to and what it promised you. With the "Hito Hito no Mi, model: Naia", you could only hear fish and sea creatures. And there was something else. Something you had discovered that embraced you in your darkest moments.

The addition of Brook —a skeleton who played various instruments and sang, which almost gave you a heart attack when you saw him— helped a lot to maintain a façade. His devil fruit had worked after he died. Everyone assumed that yours would awaken when the time was right.

Living day to day, joke after joke, disaster after disaster, was relaxing you.

You played with water pistols with everyone, shared clothes with Nami and Robin (and at night you spoiled each other with face masks and massages), you laughed at Sanji and Zoro's fights, rejected the cook's attempts to take you on a date, played guessing games about what was inside Chopper's laboratory tubes to make him smile, gave Brook ideas for songs while you drank tea together, joined in Franky and Usopp's shooting competitions, betting on who would hit the target. Always trusting the sniper, winning berries that you shared with Nami.

Luffy taught you your little training sessions to learn how to defend yourself. More than once he found you staring at him blankly, thinking you didn't understand how to throw a good punch, when in reality you were just mesmerised. Enchanted by his joy. By his smile. By his disposition. By his beauty.

"You have to bring one arm back and then push with the other! Like this!" He said, frowning in concentration.

Nami and Robin watched them, both leaning against the railing on the upper floor, outside the room the three of you shared.

"Luffy always gets like this when he decides to take on a pupil..." Sighed the navigator. "Luffy, Y/N isn't a kung fu dugong!"

The rubber boy looked at you.

"You're not going to make it?" He lamented, lowering his arms. "Zoro! Lend her one of your katanas!"

"No way." Muttered the swordsman without opening his eyes, trying to sleep.

Preparing your mind and body to improve your defence, those weak blows you used to deliver, was something you never imagined you would have to do when you lived in your village. Keeping up with your captain and the crew's cook was torture. Kicks to the head, hips, legs. Punches to the chin, stomach, nose. They were trying to teach you something you could use in a complex situation, if you didn't have time to hide. Which seemed silly to you.

Luffy's dream was to become the pirate king.

A noble dream. A dream for the brave.

He talked to you about freedom, about how the freest man in the world would be the one who became the pirate king, and you listened to him. He would sit next to you after training, when Sanji left them alone to prepare a snack at sunset. The rubber boy talked about everything and nothing. The words flowed from him as if from an inexhaustible source.

In a short time, you got to know his older brother, Ace, who, impressively, was the commander of Whitebeard's second division. A certain Dadan who raised them both alongside some mountain bandits. A young woman named Makino who always brought them clothes and taught them manners. His grandfather Garp, who served as a vice admiral in the marine and always wanted to force him to join. The yonko Shanks, who was the original owner of his straw hat, with whom he had a mission to return it when he surpassed him. And his brother Sabo, who died as a child and whom he missed madly.

Luffy talked and talked, filling your silences, smiling at you when you said something. Patiently waiting for you to talk about yourself. Eagerly waiting for you to open up. For your freedom by his side. Because that was what he wanted most for his friends. For them to be free.

But what chance of freedom could he give them if he was suffering so much?

His reality hit him like cold water. He was there, and yet he wasn't.

His world was falling apart.

He had lost them all in Sabaody. He believed he was strong, he believed he could overcome anything with enough courage, with enough confidence. If he had them by his side, he could overcome anything that came his way. He would fight for his dream, for the dreams of his friends, for the dreams of the people he met along the way.

He would do everything possible to put a smile on their faces.

So why were they determined to take his smile away? Why did they make them disappear before his eyes? Why did they let him smile broadly when he saved his brother, only to force him to hold him in his arms as he whispered his last words? Why did they have to kill Ace? Why?

Luffy was devastated. Those who were present when he awoke heard his cries of agony in the jungle. His pleas for Ace. His questions about his whereabouts.

He banged his body against the trees. His head against the rocks. He cried uncontrollably, asking, begging, pleading. A soft "thank you for loving me" repeated over and over in his mind, breaking him as he hugged himself.

It was Jinbe who pulled him out of the constant spiral his thoughts were caught up in. The doubts that gnawed at him were stagnating. Luffy wanted to be strong. He wanted to be strong enough not to lose anyone else. He wanted to be strong enough to carry his brother's will with him so that one day he could look up at the sky and smile at him, showing him that he had succeeded. He had become the king of pirates.

The news of Whitebeard's and his commander's deaths spread around the world. It received positive reactions from those who feared them and had been harmed by them. Fear spread throughout the territories that had been protected by this powerful crew. But those who suffered the most were the small family who had raised and watched these brothers grow up in Foosha.

Holding the newspaper in your hands, you read and reread the news. Just like everyone else in the crew, you wanted to be by his side. You could feel where he was. The sea whispered it to you, and you were impulsive. You never measured your actions. You never said enough to yourself. So you stole a small boat on that desolate island where you had ended up after their separation in Sabaody.

You let the sea guide you without a log pose, leading you to your captain. After a few days, you ignored the new newspaper announcing that Luffy had returned to the scene of the tragedy. Two years. You would all be reunited in two years. But you couldn't not go to his side.

You wanted to give him something to hold on to. Something that would give him calm and strength while everyone waited for their reunion.

The sea beasts cleared your path and escorted you somewhere. It took you three days to reach a jungle island. You got off your boat, nervously smoothing your white shirt. You trusted the sea. It wouldn't be wrong. But if Luffy was in this place, how would you get to him without being killed by one of those beasts growling in the distance? Sanji had taught you a few kicks, and your captain a few punches, but you were still weak.

This island was covered in vegetation. The trees stood proudly, as tall as if they were competing with each other to be the first to reach the sunlight. The plants with strange leaves were striking, to the point that something in your mind told you not to touch them. And in the distance, threatening to erupt, you could see three volcanoes.

You entered the jungle, startled by the sound of quick, heavy footsteps running towards you. You looked to your side and your scream echoed through the trees.

A larger-than-normal tiger was approaching you, baring fangs as long as your arm. You froze in fear, falling to the grass as you closed your eyes when it lunged to bite.

"Young lady? I don't know how you got here, but this is no place for beautiful girls."

You opened your eyes when death did not come, and instead there was an elderly man adjusting his glasses in front of you, smiling sideways. The tiger lay between you both, unconscious.

"Old man Rayleigh! Where are you?"

The speed with which you stood up impressed the man in front of you, whose name was Rayleigh. Rayleigh? You looked at him again. He closed his eyes, a gentle smile on his face, crossing his arms. You had read about him. You had read everything about the pirate king and his crew.

"Huh? Y/N?" You looked behind the dark king and there he was. Your captain, completely bandaged, looking at you in surprise. "Y/N!"

His movements were, all in all, normal. He didn't use his powers as he ran towards you and wrapped you in his arms. He seemed to be careful with his body, and he certainly needed to be.

"What are you doing here? How did you get here? How are the others? We were supposed to meet in two years!" His excited voice as he pulled your body close to his using what little strength he had devastated you.

You hugged him back, careful not to disturb any areas where the injury was more severe. You felt a slight tremor in his body as he asked a thousand questions, not giving you time to answer.

Rayleigh watched the two of you thoughtfully, Jinbe joining him at his side, having felt a sudden calling.

"I came by boat." You whispered.

"The little boat? That's dangerous." Said Luffy.

"Young lady, you crossed the Calm Belt and overcame all those sea beasts in a simple boat? You must be very strong." Rayleigh inquired.

"It's not that." Jinbe wanted to say, but the words reached no one but you in your mind.

Your eyes quickly found him, and he smiled at you.

"Oi, Y/N, Y/N, are you going to stay?" Luffy asked with a huge smile, capturing your full attention.

"No. I'd be interrupting whatever is going on here."

"You need to train, you're still weak." He teased.

"I'm not!" You complained.

But you were. The right-hand man of the Pirate King and the first son of the sea smiled amusedly. One, knowing the whole story. And the other, having grown up with a legend.

The sun and the sea belonged to each other. And the sun and the sea were unknowingly facing each other.

"If you don't mind, I have a proposal for you, miss Y/N." Said the gyojin.

Luffy and you stopped arguing and looked at him.

"I would like to train you in gyojin karate."

"Gyojin karate? I'm bad with my fists." You muttered, embarrassed.

"That would be great, Jinbe!" Said Luffy, picking his nose. "But doesn't it only work with gyojin? Will she turn into a mermaid?"

"She'll make it work better than anyone else." Said Rayleigh, walking towards a campfire. "I'll give you a month to talk and for Luffy to recover. Then you'll leave with Jinbe. Is that alright with both of you?"

Luffy nodded, dragging you by the hand towards the campfire.

In a month, he and you grew closer. You discovered all kinds of beetles, a hobby of his that you loved. You made them fight, betting on which one would win, groaning in frustration when you lost. You could never beat him when he had the advantage of knowledge over you.

You fought over the food Rayleigh hunted, receiving teasing from the adult who quickly grew fond of you. In his eyes, you were a sweet girl who needed to bring out that hidden strength. Jinbe only scolded Luffy when he bit your hand before you could take some meat.

It caught your attention how in the mornings your captain was a cheerful boy, giving a huge smile to anyone, but at night he would break down. You slept separately. Rayleigh used to cover him with his cape, and Jinbe covered you with his. But when no one was looking, when they went to the island's shore to talk in private, Luffy would move.

He sought refuge in your arms. He didn't ask for permission. He didn't ask questions. He didn't speak. All you felt were his bandaged arms wrapped around your waist and his face against your chest. If tears wet your shirt and silent sobs shook his body, you said nothing. You stroked his hair silently until he fell asleep, and only after making sure he was, did you sleep yourself.

It was the morning after a nightmare woke him up that you made your decision.

You had done this three or four times in your life. You weren't sure you could do it, but that was the only reason you had visited Rusukaina.

On the shore, you took off your sandals and put your feet in the water. The weakness of seawater, which must bother all users of the devil's fruit, never bothered you. When they said it was an anomaly, this was why.

You stretched your hand out over the water and it rose just ten centimetres. You clenched it into a fist and opened it again. Fifteen centimetres. You closed it again and the water fell, splashing as it formed a puddle. A puddle in the sea. The water was mirrored, confirming your success.

"How can you be there if you ate a devil fruit?"

You looked up, frightened.

Luffy looked at you confused, his head tilted to one side and his lips pursed.

"You didn't eat one then?"

"Luffy..."

"I saw you lift the water."

"It must have been your imagination." You said, smiling nervously.

"No. Earlier on the Sunny Go, I saw you attract the fish. I thought it was Camie, but Camie doesn't eat her friends."

You remained silent.

"It must be great to be able to swim with a devil fruit!" He laughed as he approached you. "What were you doing with the water? Something like fium and splash!"

You scratched the back of your neck while the bandaged boy moved his hands in exaggerated movements. That was just how he was. And you were becoming more attached to him than usual. The way he explained things with the sounds they made made you smile.

"If I tell you, it will be a secret between us."

"Are you going to show me your treasure?" He asked, his eyes sparkling.

"Something like that."

You took his hand, pulling him close to you. You both looked out at the puddle in the sea, so much like a mirror.

With the end of the month and the promise to meet again in two years, you parted ways. The truth about your devil fruit was kept by your captain, who smiled happily at learning more about you. Happy at how little by little you were opening up to them. To him.

He begged you for different tricks with water, bursting into laughter when the sea water weakened him. He understood why Jinbe had to be the one to train you, eager to know how strong you would be in two years. He was saddened when, at night, he no longer had your warmth by his side and your caresses on his hair to soothe his pain and trauma.

But he took refuge in your gift.

That puddle you had created in the sea was trapped in a seashell. You had taught him how to take the enchanted water out and put it back in, with no limit on its use.

He believed it was the best thing in the world after his hat, his brothers, and his crew.

His lonely nights were filled with laughter by the sea. Laughter that had previously only existed in his memories, but which he could now hear and see. The puddle formed mirages, reflecting his memories.

He saw Ace. He saw Sabo. He saw the three of them running through Mount Colubo. Hunting, playing, fighting. He cried at everything he witnessed. Just hearing his brothers being happy, Sabo counting the points in their training sessions, Ace teasing him for being weak, his taunts at seeing his older brother embarrassed when receiving compliments from Makino. It all made his heart ache.

The two years passed more quickly than the crew had expected. The strength they had all gained, their new skills and their new appearances were something to be appreciated.

Your training with Jinbe on a remote island in order to hide your identity had been laborious. You were good at gyojin karate. Your devil fruit responded to you with ease now. You could defend yourself and attack without relying on others, but the adult had told you that you still had a long way to go. The Hito Hito no Mi would not stop there. You still had to awaken it. You still had to learn more with it, without limiting yourself. You could do anything you could imagine with enough determination.

You smiled amusedly when you saw Nami sitting at the bar, drinking alone. You approached her from behind, hugging her and whispering in her ear.

"Are you free tonight?"

The woman, now with long hair, shuddered when she recognised the voice and turned around with a smile.

"Y/N!" Her arms wrapped around you in a big hug. "It's been so long! You look amazing!"

"You look beautiful, Nami." You said, sitting down next to her with a smile.

"Ladies, would you like me to buy you a drink?"

You both turned towards the voice with disinterest, your expressions instantly changing when you recognised it. Usopp was smiling, looking more confident than ever. Nami and you rushed to hug him, starting to talk about everything the three of you had done in those two years. You talked a little about your training, saying that you were now good at karate, proud of your attacks.

As the minutes passed, you met up with the others again.

The Sunny Go was still in the same place you left it, without a single scratch. Seeing most of the crew filled your heart with joy. Those people who had welcomed you with open arms two years ago were finally in front of you again.

Franky whistled and complimented the beautiful women in front of him. His appearance had changed a lot since the past, but he was approached by Usopp, who looked at him excitedly and asked all sorts of questions. Chopper, wearing a new hat and looking cuter than ever, jumped around and hugged Robin excitedly. He had missed everyone dearly. Robin, more beautiful than ever with her long hair, talked about her days with the Revolutionary Army.

Everyone looked healthy, but above all, they looked happy. Happy to be back where they belonged.

But someone was missing.

And just thinking about seeing him again made your heart race wildly inside your chest, wanting to escape.

"I can't wait to see how much Luffy has changed since last time!" Usopp exclaimed with a smile from ear to ear. "I'm so excited to see him!"

"Me too." Said Robin.

You nodded silently, smiling fondly. When the assumption was made that he might have gotten himself into trouble, Chopper offered to go find the three remaining members. The moment the little one left, an irreplaceable presence fell from above.

Brook had left behind his life as a world-renowned musician to return to his beloved friends. They all welcomed him with smiles.

"And I thought you couldn't get any more beautiful…" Commented the skeleton, looking at the three women. "Well… Two years have passed."

He sat down on a barrel and a few strings of his guitar resonated in the air.

"Would you all be so kind and show me your panties?"

"No way!"

Nami kicked him away, while Robin and you laughed.

"Oi! Guys!"

You looked up just as his voice reached your ears. Your big smile matched those of the others, but the sparkle in your eyes hid the longing in your heart, those feelings that had blossomed when you spent a month together, completely alone, sleeping in each other's arms every night. Those feelings you tried to fight, repeating in your mind like a mantra that they would pass if you didn't see him, breaking down when you dreamed of his smile or when you thought of his reaction to seeing you again.

You stayed behind the others with a sudden blush on your cheeks.

You had never seen him without his multiple bandages. And now there he was, stepping onto the deck of the Sunny Go while greeting everyone, wearing an open red shirt that revealed that huge scar.

Luffy had gained muscle. He looked stronger. More confident. And yet, you could see that he was the same as always, that his strength and confidence were centred on the people around him.

The rubber boy looked for you, smiling when he saw you.

Neither of you spoke, at least not out loud, pretending that nothing had happened between you.

The journey to Fishman Island had been quite an adventure. Seeing the underwater world left you speechless. Holding onto the railing, you admired the different schools of fish that surrounded the ship from time to time, circling twice before swimming away. You wanted to reach out and feel them against your skin, but that would have exposed you. The sea water did not weaken you, and the crew knew you had an “unused” devil fruit.

"I think they're greeting you." You looked to your side, to that warm presence.

Luffy was looking at a school of pink fish that had come up to your face to look at you from the other side of the bubble.

"Yes?" You said, amused.

"We could eat them."

"Don't even think about it." You scolded him.

"But you're not a mermaid!"

"But they talk to me. They're friends."

"Friends aren't for eating." He muttered, pressing his lips together.

You giggled admiringly at the little pout he made as his stomach growled. That soft sound from you disturbed the sea animals around the Sunny Go, who were happily swirling around.

"Are there always so many fish? How cool!" Said Usopp, standing next to you.

You snuggled up to Luffy a little, pretending not to know anything. Luffy moved his mouth into a pout to one side, also pretending not to know.

"You're bad at lying." You whispered.

"I'm not." He whispered back.

You laughed, leaving him with Usopp.

Fishman Island was a dreamlike place. Your devil fruit seemed comfortable there, and the mermaids and gyojin looked at you excitedly.

The powerful goddess of the sea, Naia, stood before them.

The legend told for generations spoke of how she was always accompanied by a man. A clingy man who never left her side. A playful man who always made her laugh. A selfish man who never refrained from looking at her with love and wanting her for himself.

That man was the sun god.

They said that when they separated, the goddess cried so much that her tears disturbed the sea. The catastrophe caused by the forced breakup of their love made her sleep for centuries. And at some point, when the sun rose again, she would wake up.

Mothers and children never stopped talking about how they, the inhabitants of Fishman Island, would be the first to recognise her. After all, Naia was a kind of mother to that race.

Everyone wondered who the man accompanying you would be.

Nami and Robin watched amused as the little mermen, mermaids, and gyojin children clung to you shamelessly, asking you to play with them. You had no idea how to refuse. Throughout the banquet, you were here and there, performing water tricks hidden from your crew, entertaining the little ones who were excited by the slightest thing you did.

Jinbe, happy to see your progress and how you were doing in the water, smiled as he drank his sake.

Everyone was having a good time. Everyone except for a rubber boy who occasionally remembered that you weren't by his side and, capriciously, pouted. He calmed down again when they gave him meat, enjoying the party.

You sat down next to him, exhausted. You didn't know what other tricks to do for those children. You took a sip of sake, on the verge of spitting it out when another gyojin child came up in front of you.

"Oi, kids, she's mine for now." Said Luffy, frowning and taking a bite of meat.

You blushed, trying to drink the sake faster. Robin raised an eyebrow at his words, giving the orange-haired woman beside her an inquiring look. They both knew how possessive the rubber boy could be. His hat and his friends were equally important to him. But that phrase… That tone was different.

The impact his words could have on one's life or day was foreign to Luffy. Noticing that what he unconsciously said brought a revolution was not something he cared about.

He continued as if nothing had happened.

And so, his normal behaviour over the following days came as no surprise to anyone. The navigator and the archaeologist watched you both closely, knowing that there was something else going on between you.

Even though your captain sat next to you at breakfast, fighting with you over the portions you hadn't eaten yet (something he would do with anyone), there was something strange about it. The natural way you would slap his hand and growl at him. The way he would bite your hand hard, making you cry out. They did not remember the two of you being so close before Sabaody, two years ago.

You had not had time to develop such a friendship.

And it did not seem like a simple friendship.

One night, when you hadn't yet come to your room to sleep with them, they talked.

"Seriously, if those two are a couple and they didn't tell us..." Whispered Nami.

"I don't think they are. In fact, I think that's where they're headed." Robin refuted.

"If Luffy feels something for her, he won't notice." Growled the navigator, burying her face in her pillow.

The black-haired woman smiled as she sat on her own bed.

"We just have to give them time." She murmured.

"We have to keep an eye on them."

"Without interfering." Robin concluded.

Island after island you visited in the future, day after day that passed, both women decided to give you privacy, paying attention only during dinners. As if reviewing the day, looking for some sign of progress.

It was amid the heat of the flames and the volcanoes about to erupt in Punk Hazard that Robin noticed the first detail: Luffy talked to you like he didn't talk to anyone else.

The heat was unbearable, you could barely stand that kind of hell, ignoring that your captain now looked like a centaur and shouted excitedly that he liked having four legs. If you looked closer, you noticed that the ones at the back, which had just been attached, were barely working. They flew through the air because Luffy's legs did all the work.

You wiped the sweat from your forehead for the fourth time when the smiling boy approached you. He leaned over to you, whispering in your ear.

"Why don't you make something like a sphere of water and hydrate yourself?"

"I can't. There's no source of water nearby." You whispered.

"Your sweat."

You parted your lips, not believing what he had said. Use your sweat? And why was he looking at you like that? With his brow slightly furrowed, as if he had said the most serious, intelligent and obvious thing in the world. You smiled amusedly, patting his shoulder.

Robin noticed it again when all of you arrived on the other side of the lake, where the island became wintry. The small group was shivering from the cold, freezing after falling into the water. The archaeologist sighed as she felt her body warm up, turning to check that everyone was okay, raising her eyebrows briefly in surprise.

Her captain was wrapping a coat around your body, as if it were a practised movement. Neither of you knew that Luffy had actually watched others do this and wanted to try it himself.

Because that's what people who loved someone else did, right? Give them a coat so they would never be cold. Rayleigh had done it for him when they trained together. Hancock had lent him hers to get to Sabaody.

In his mind, if you cared about someone, you should give them a coat.

Although he knew very well why he only wanted to give it to you.

During the banquet, when you walked away to comfort Chopper, who was frightened by Trafalgar Law, the two women sat down to exchange information. Nami hadn't seen anything unusual, so she was surprised to hear about her captain's actions towards you.

The navigator became frustrated when she couldn't stay in Dressrosa, feeling like she was missing out on everything. Robin promised to keep her informed when they met again.

And so she did.

You had signed up with him for the coliseum tournament, wearing one of the many gladiator outfits. Luckily, you had been placed in a different block from Luffy, saving you from a difficult fate. It wasn't time for your competition yet when Zoro came looking for the two of you.

The urgency with which you began searching for the exit made you anxious. Outside, it would soon be chaos, but the thought of Luffy abandoning one of the few physical reminders he had of his brother made your heart ache. You wished you could get it for him, but he had forbidden you to do so. If he left, you would go with him.

You stopped in your tracks for a few seconds when you realised there was nowhere to escape. Encountering Bartolomeo and Bellamy only confirmed your suspicions. It was all a trap and you were trapped in the coliseum, only he knew the way out.

"Luffy senpai, what will happen to the Mera Mera no Mi?" Asked the green-haired man, staring at the wall.

"The lives of my comrades are more important."

You bit your lower lip. A physical reminder of Ace that he couldn't have. A physical reminder that would give him a glimpse of his time in the world, something that would show him that he was there. You could stay in the coliseum without any problems. Win it, take it away in its chest, keep it safe, and run away with it until you could give it to Luffy...

Luffy tugged on your little finger without looking at you to pull you out of your thoughts. Bartolomeo talked non-stop, still facing the wall, about how he had always planned to win it for him. Because he admired him. He admired the whole crew and would do anything for any of you, but especially for the young man next to you.

You turned to look back when approaching footsteps interrupted you. You frowned at the man. He was dressed like a noble would be. And he wore a custom hat.

"I won't let you keep the Mera Mera no Mi, Straw Hat Luffy."

"What are you talking about, idiot?" Bartolomeo growled, walking towards him. "I don't know who you think you are, but to you he is Luffy senpai. Respect him!"

The green-haired man continued talking, trying to intimidate him, but that man was not fazed. He was calm, not taking his eyes off the boy you loved. You began to frown.

"I've known all that for a long time." Said the man, pushing Bartolomeo away.

You stood in front of Luffy, trying to protect him when he started to approach. Your right hand took a familiar gyojin karate stance, and something in the blond's gaze seemed to sparkle in recognition. The rubber boy stood in front of you again, hating that you were protecting him.

But what happened next was something neither of you were prepared for. You stepped aside, your lower lip trembling, unable to interrupt them.

You could only watch your rubber boy crying as he hugged him. His sobs were loud, letting out more than he had allowed himself to do at your side. He apologised. He repeated to the blond that everything was fine and that he shouldn't apologise. The older one thanked him for staying alive.

And you were broken, thanking whoever for this joy in his life.

Living two years of his life believing that he had lost his two older brothers must have been the greatest torture.

In Zou, despite the situation they had to face in Big Mom's territory, Nami and Robin made a space for themselves.

"So, his brother is the second in command of the Revolutionary Army?" The navigator whispered.

Robin nodded. She had kept that secret for two years.

"Sabo noticed something too."

"What?"

"I don't know what happened between the three of them, but when Luffy and Y/N were sleeping after the battle..."

"Separately?" Whispered Nami.

"Yes and no. Luffy was in bed and Y/N was holding his hand, sitting on the floor."

The navigator nodded thoughtfully, waiting for her to continue.

"Sabo said he liked his little brother's girlfriend."

Nami's eyes widened in surprise.

As if Zoro and Franky hadn't heard the revolutionary's conversation too. Now you had two more pairs of eyes watching you from afar.

As night fell, you yawned relaxed in bed. You couldn't be at peace for long. Your stomach churned at the thought of Luffy going to the territory of a yonko without you. It calmed you to think that the friends he was going with were good and trustworthy. Bringing Sanji back was essential.

You couldn't imagine your days without him in the kitchen, occupying every corner and filling the room with his twists and compliments.

The blanket was lifted carefully and arms wrapped around your waist.

"Luffy?" You whispered.

"Mhm."

Your heart skipped a beat. Should you put one hand on his hair and the other on his back like you used to? Should you tell him to go back to his room? To his bed? And not feel his warmth. Not feel his heartbeat. Not comfort him in silence. Since you saw each other again, you hadn't slept together.

"Y/N?" He whispered, resting his chin on your chest. "You must stroke my hair."

His demanding tone, trapped in a pout, made you giggle. He relaxed under your touch. He hadn’t wanted to bother you when you saw each other again, but he had missed this. Your fingers in his hair, the gentle circles traced on his back, waking up without you leaving him.

You had stolen his heart in a month, and he wasn't doing anything about it.

"Sorry." He murmured, his cheek resting on your chest. His tone didn't seem to regret whatever he was regretting in the slightest.

"Why are you apologising?"

"I gave Sabo your gift. The seashell." He whispered without looking at you. "I thought he would need it more than I did."

You smiled, resisting the urge to kiss his forehead.

"It’s okay. I can make you another one if you want."

Luffy didn't say what he was thinking. He knew you would make those magical pools for him if he asked, without needing a seashell. Next time, he wanted to show you everything he had to show.

But that would have to wait.

Wano was unlike anything you had ever seen before.

The suffering of the people in this village made your blood boil. Poor people had nothing to eat, and their water was contaminated. Seeing them live dehydrated, with sick children and rumbling stomachs, pushed you to your limit.

Hiding your identity would be difficult in this country. They needed you, so you allowed yourself to do something in secret. The gentle touch of your hands began to purify the water of the river of Ebisu, the pollution seeping into your bones. You didn't mention it to anyone, it was an experiment. You wanted to know your limits.

The flowing water was clean, perfect for the children, elderly and adults in the area. It was the little you could do while enduring the pollution. You had to find a way to expel it from within you without causing havoc. Throwing it away and contaminating plants, the land for future crops or the sea itself disgusted you.

But maybe, enduring it was your mistake.

Perhaps if you had gone against your principles and stopped trusting Luffy's words, those that promised to save this country, you would not be suffering now. But it was impossible for you not to do so. It was impossible for you not to trust him. You knew he would succeed, because he never lied. He worked hard for what he set out to do.

He was like sunshine in the lives of those who knew him.

You tolerated the contamination in your bones during the battles in Onigashima, but weeks had passed since you received it and your body began to take its toll at the worst possible moment.

You could only hear Nami and Usopp's screams when you stood in front of them. The three of you had a little girl with you. Otama was Luffy's adoration, and putting her in danger was something you would never forgive yourself for. The powers of your devil fruit did not respond in time to counter the threatening attack of the yonko Big Mom, an attack that was aimed at your friends.

The "heavenly fire" struck your body, its impact propelling it and slamming it against the walls. That homie, Prometheus, pushed your body wall to wall, breaking them one by one as if he were on a mission. As if he wanted to kill someone from the straw hat crew.

You spat out a little blood when the fire became more intense. It was burning your torso and arms. If you moved your fingers slightly, you didn't have the strength to call on the sea water, nor to send Prometheus backwards.

A song reached your ears. You opened your eyes slightly, meeting the gaze of the homie, so threatening and sinister. You smiled slightly, knowing you would be safe.

That soft intonation, almost as if a mother were tucking her beloved child into bed, could not be heard by anyone else present on Onigashima. Naia's song was exclusively for you, only heard on special occasions. The first time you heard it, you consumed her fruit. And this time, everything was a mystery.

"Y/N!"

Was that cry from Usopp or Nami? You couldn't see them. You could only watch Prometheus rage at your smile.

A gasp escaped from within you as the force of his attack tripled. The other homies joined him, Hera and Napoleon, carrying you through the hard rock wall.

A beep stunned your ears.

Your body fell from a height impossible to calculate. The abyss drew you into its darkness, and you could do nothing but embrace it.

The severity of your injuries left you with no strength to scream. To call for help. To call out to anyone.

Luffy, your friends, the people of Wano who trusted you. Was this your end? Was this Naia's will, for which you had been expelled from your native island? Did you really have to die like this?

The water engulfed you as you hit hard, sinking you to the depths.

"Announcement to all of Onigashima!"

Bao Huang's shout echoed in every corner. The fighting didn't stop, but everyone was paying attention. Something had changed.

"A member of the straw hat crew has been defeated!"

Usopp growled, wiping away his tears in despair. He felt useless. He should have taken the attack, not let you cover him. He couldn't do anything because of the fear. He couldn't do anything to stop you from falling. Nami hugged Otama, sobbing hard, apologising to Luffy over and over again even though her captain wasn't in front of them. How could she explain to him that she let the woman he loved be killed right in front of his eyes? Everyone's friend? Another straw hat.

"Y/N has been killed by Big Mom-sama!"

At different points on Onigashima, the crew was moved. Different reactions crossed their faces. Anger, sadness, regret. Some, like Chopper and Brook, shouted through their tears that you couldn't have died. That Bao Huang was lying. Others, like Zoro and Sanji, silently continued to fight. You were just as stubborn as Luffy, whatever had happened to you, you wouldn't stop there. Jinbe stopped dead in his tracks as Robin hugged Chopper, looking for something to hold on to before her thoughts consumed her mind.

Luffy's heart scratched at his chest as he was forced to hold back.

He wanted to run to the edge of the terrace. He wanted to look down. He felt the need for his longing to become one with the sea despite his inability to swim. And he felt you. The soft beating of your heart, how weak your pulse was, and how calm the waves were. Could you drown if you were the sea itself? Could your wounds condemn your soul to an irreversible fate?

He clenched his fists, unflinching. One mistake, one moment of weakness, would end everyone's life.

For some strange reason, the news from Bao Huang did not affect him like it did the others, who were crying incessantly.

Luffy trusted you, even when his observation haki could no longer sense your heartbeat.

You had spent a month together. You had slept together. You had shared and fought over food. You had cared for his mind and his nightmares without him asking. You had listened to his whole story and his dreams, while opening up about yours only to him. You had been one of the reasons he was standing there today, fighting.

He trusted you. He trusted that you would be okay.

If your origin was the sea, then you would return to it. And the sea would do its thing to bring you back.

Because you belonged by his side, in a silent agreement that neither of you would break.

In the depths, hundreds of fish and sea creatures surrounded your lifeless body, giving you space, shy to be near their goddess. Your outstretched arms allowed them to see you. The burns on your torso and neck continued to bleed, despite the water's attempts to soothe them. The pollution tolerated for weeks drained away little by little, oozing from your body until it gathered into a sphere.

"Nika, you've got yours!"

"Oi, Luffy! That's my food!"

The voices, clearly reproachful, echoed among those present under the sea.

"Naia! Come jump!"

"Y/N, let's play something!"

A heartbeat.

"Nika, stop moving, you're annoying."

"Luffy, I can't sleep if you move around so much. Go to your bed."

Another heartbeat.

"Naia is mean."

"Y/N is mean, she wouldn't let me eat her food."

Fire ravaged Onigashima. Everyone began to gather in one place, desperately searching for a solution. The captain of the straw hat pirates continued to fight Kaido, filling the atmosphere with anxiety. No member of the alliance wanted to hear any more bad news.

"Even if Straw Hat-ya wins, we'll all die in the fire." Said the captain of the heart pirates. "We have to find a way to put it out."

Nami took a few steps towards the centre, standing next to Marco as some surfaces began to give way.

The sudden tremor in the floor frightened everyone. Several fell to the floor, breathing heavily amid the flames and two powerful presences fighting on the terrace. The navigator held Otama tightly in front of her.

"An earthquake? How is that possible up here?" She said, confused.

"This isn't normal. Something's happening." Robin drew some minks towards the centre with her powers.

"Is Straw Hat provoking it?" Kid growled.

"No..." Law said. "He's still fighting Kaido."

"I sense another presence-yoi."

"It’s not Luffy or Kaido? What’s going on? Robin!" Chopper hugged the archaeologist, crying.

"There’s something in the sea!"

The scream of one of the beast pirates alarmed their opponents, with Law being the first to look into the hole you had made in the wall before dying. His crew had been on the Polar Tang at the moment you fell, but according to their reports, it was impossible to reach your body. A blue sphere surrounded you and the sea beasts threatened to attack them. They could have killed his friends, but something was holding them back. The waves battered his submarine, sending it away every time it approached where you were supposed to be.

One by one, they took clumsy steps to look through the hole, at a considerable distance, afraid of falling. Most of the straw hats did not want to see what was left after your death. The pain in their hearts could not be revealed, and their tears could not be shed. Not until it was all over.

The waves crashed into each other with fury, their directions unnatural. Not even the weather in the New World could explain something like that. Nami left Otama next to a sleeping Zoro, holding onto the wall to get a closer look.

"The water is receding." She whispered. "Everyone, stay in the centre!"

"Oi, oi, Nami, the waves can't reach up here, why are you worried?" Asked Usopp.

"Because of that thing that's taking shape."

The metres receded by the sea rose up in a wave. A wave almost two thousand metres high, immovable. And in its centre, there was a figure. A woman created from water, rivalling a giant in size.

"We won't get out of here alive." Cried Usopp.

"Robin-chan, Nami-swan, I'll protect you."

"Sanji! Me too!" Chopper whimpered.

"She looks like..." Law whispered.

"That's Y/N!" Jinbe shouted.

The entire crew's eyes widened before they began screaming and crying.

"Monster!" Usopp exclaimed upon seeing the figure.

"What is that thing, it's scary!" Nami cried.

"Y/N-chan had that kind of power all along?" Sanji shouted, leaning further out of the hole.

"I'm glad she's alive, yohoho!"

"It's a super miracle!" Franky sobbed.

"What a peculiar shape..." Robin murmured thoughtfully. "Do you know anything about it, Jinbe-san?"

The gyojin smiled broadly.

Naia had returned.

"I would recommend everyone stand in the centre and hold each other. Y/N is going to do something."

You cupped the water in your hands. Just as you had practised for two years, you had no reason to be nervous. Your body felt healthy and light as you became the sea itself. The burns would still be there once you broke this form, but now it was enough. Jinbe had trained you relentlessly so that you could achieve his hikishio ipponzeoi.

You prepared your attack and, without hesitation, half the sea was thrown towards Onigashima.

The flood was unprecedented.

The fire was completely extinguished. The devil fruit users weakened. The few gyojin who were there saved everyone from being swept away by the waves. Nami carried Otama, Usopp saved Robin, Sanji held Zoro, Franky grabbed Brook, and Jinbe put Chopper on his shoulder. Everyone in the crew smiled as they looked out to sea, where your figure stood in all its grandeur and splendour. To say they were surprised would be an understatement. They had so much to ask you. Two wanted to apologise for everything you had been through. A certain swordsman would seek you out to train when he woke up and heard the news. The archaeologist wanted to know everything about your devil fruit and its rarity.

You were something that transcended the unnatural.

"Shishishi!"

You looked up at the island's roof. Luffy, in a strange white form, floated in the air, reclining with his arms behind his head. His beautiful pink eyes looked at you fondly. And amid all that radiant happiness, you could see tears threatening to escape.

"Thank you for coming back, Y/N."

The land of Wano made headlines worldwide. The bounty posters were updated. The crew now belonged to a yonko, straw hat Luffy.

It made you happy to see how he was getting closer and closer to fulfilling his dream. And, in turn, how you were now one of the members with the highest bounty.

You held the poster in front of your face, grimacing from time to time as you felt Chopper's hooves on your burns, applying an ointment that he claimed was excellent. You would be left with scars on your neck and chest, but you couldn't dream of leaving that country without a scratch. You didn't regret defending your friends.

Although Nami and Usopp never left your side, the sniper crying and hugging you every time you passed by him, and the navigator offering you berries (something she wouldn't normally do with anyone) and multiple strokes on your hair.

You paid attention to your photo on the poster. It was you, from head to toe, every little detail, every tiny imperfection, but all loved by the sea. The sea goddess you had awakened had been captured and everyone admired her. For some she was terrifying, for others magical.

You smiled dumbly. You couldn't always use such a powerful attack, but being immortalised like this was nice. You traced the numbers with your index finger, curious about the insane sum.

Why was your head suddenly worth 1,000,000,000 berries? You had only died, come back to life, and extinguished the fire on Onigashima. Perhaps you had also purified all the water in Wano, and Trafalgar Law had used his devil fruit to remove the pollution from inside you. But that was not something others could know.

You never got a straight answer to that.

Egghead was about to be a disaster. CP0 was on the island with clear instructions. Your boots echoed on the floor as you stepped aside to wait for Luffy. You were supposed to take him back to Labophase, but he was more interested in facing an old enemy he had encountered again.

You looked up, entranced. His Gear 5 was mind-blowing. Everything he could do with his devil fruit, the ease with which his brain came up with new ideas, it all made you laugh. Not to mention the floor, which now made you bounce.

Vegapunk hurried over to the monitors.

"Have the white and blue warriors appeared yet?" He asked, his eyes shining as he caught sight of Luffy laughing. "Tell me about those transformations. The white one from Straw Hat and the young girl on her wanted poster."

"We don't know, to be honest." Said Nami. "Luffy's is the Gomu Gomu no Mi, but Y/N's is unknown to us."

The scientist pressed his lips together, holding back a smile.

"There is no fruit with that name in the devil fruit encyclopaedia!"

The crew gasped, unable to comprehend.

"What? That's impossible!" Exclaimed the navigator.

"Luffy always says gomu gomu when he attacks." Added Usopp.

"Look how beautiful he is! I'm sure she is too!" Rambled Vegapunk, raising his hands. "It's fate! I didn't expect to meet them like this."

"If you know anything, tell us. Y/N-chan doesn't talk much about herself." Sanji requested.

"What happened to those two?" Franky asked, approaching the screen to look at the two of you.

Luffy was still floating there laughing, and you looked at him with a sparkle in your eyes.

"They look like gods."

The cook choked on his own words, unable to believe it.

"Luffy a god? He's an idiot!" He shouted. "Y/N-chan is a goddess, that's true."

Robin looked at Vegapunk in surprise.

"Are you saying that those appearances we saw are those of gods?"

"Yes." Said the scientist, his expression turning serious. "The warrior of liberation. He who plays the fool and brings smiles to all. The sun god, Nika!"

The few crew members present were surprised. The answers that no one else could give them were in the brain of this man who stared at the screen excitedly. Eager to talk. Eager to educate the world.

"And the goddess he loves, the one capable of punishing everyone for him. The goddess of the sea, Naia."

Nami shook her head, approaching Vegapunk.

"Nika and Naia? I've never heard those names."

"Of course not. Their names were erased from history." The scientist said abruptly. "Nika and Naia were inseparable."

The revealed legend left them speechless. In the end, the archaeologist was right.

It was best not to interfere.

The sun god felt a deep longing for the sea. Seeing it every day made him feel free, and he wanted to reach it more than anything else. Then, one day, he met its goddess. He thought she would help him help. If he could make people laugh, then she could give them freedom.

Naia was closed off, only willing to care for those she loved: the gyojin, the mermaids, the mermen. Opening the doors of her heart to let Nika in went against her principles. He knew how to make her laugh effortlessly with a joke or a silly expression. He fought with her over food, hitting him every time he wanted to eat a fish. He invited her to have fun jumping with his friends. He asked her to do water tricks for him.

Falling in love with each other was natural. Nika always admired her foolishly, his gaze never leaving her. He loved her loudly with his actions. He loved her silently with his words.

Naia always looked up, because he loved to float. He shone in a way that only he could. Her love was protective, ensuring that he never lost his smile. That he never shed a single tear.

For him, she was freedom. And for her, he was.

Someone feared their powers together, the ease with which people became attached to and trusted them, asking them for things they could give them. So, under false pretences, he murdered the sun god.

The two lovers agreed to meet again when destiny required it. When the time came. First, Nika would return, accompanied by a man who shared his ideals of freedom. Then, Naia would notice him. Her living love.

That devil fruit that had eluded the world government for centuries, and that devil fruit that was believed to be non-existent, would wait to be reincarnated.

Nika would choose who would bring a new dawn to the world, and Naia would take into her sweet arms the one who would support him on his journey. A mystical love, a destined love. Unconsciously, their successors would love each other just as they had.

Because their souls resonated. Their souls yearned for each other. Their souls waited.

And that statue that had been looking —alone, hidden from everyone with its arms outstretched— at the sun for centuries, would finally be able to feel his skin under her fingers once again.

© lawfem don't copy, steal or feed my work to ai <3

[vanillann]

sugar, baby? [j.abbot x f!reader]

layout inspo | dividers by @cafekitsune

you are living the dream opening your very own bakery, miss mack, in the middle of downtown pittsburgh. only issue is, you are slowly being push out by stupid chain competitors like starbucks and dunkin. the only people keeping you in business are the few random lawyers and the very nice er staff at the local emergency room.

you are working late one night and have a small incident involving a loud gunshot and a slipped knife to the palm, so wandering on down to the lovely er with the very nice staff seems only right.

until you walk out the sliding doors, suddenly a sugar baby?

jack abbot is not a capitalist, contrary to popular belief. he goes out of his way to support all the local businesses of pittsburgh, it’s his city and his people; he owns it to them. so when a very pretty baker opens a shop not far from work, of course jack becomes a regular.

but what happens when that very pretty baker wanders in one night with a bleeding hand and admits her business is falling apart? and what happens when jack get word vomit and unintentionally becomes a sugar daddy?

welcome to the

sugar,baby? cookbook

a collection of fics that put the reader, or miss mack as jack likes to call her, right in the center of a potential disaster. you and jack are full of love, comedy, and the very rare but occasional drama.

-RECIPE #1: GULTEN FREE SWEET POTATO MUFFIN

-RECIPE #2: BROWNED BUTTER FINANCIERS

[jacksabbotts]

✮ ⋆ ˙ 🩻 🥼 🩺 .༄ JACK ABBOT ⟡ ݁ . . ݁₊ ⊹ MASTERLIST ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁

*ੈ ✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ GOOD GIRL CONFESSIONS ft. morgue tech!reader ✎ᝰ. series masterlist

*ੈ ✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ BROKEN BOTTLES ft. robinavitch!reader ✎ᝰ. series masterlist

*ੈ ✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ RAPID RESPONSE ft. ems captain!reader ✎ᝰ. series masterlist

*ੈ ✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ SUTURE LINE ft. social worker!reader ✎ᝰ. series masterlist

* ✷ ⊹ * ˚ main masterlist || inbox ✮ ⋆ ˙ dividers by @cafekitsune + @uzmacchiato

# Ⓒ all rights to canon characters belong to the original creators. my character and non canon compliant events belong to me. under no circumstances are you to repost, copy, or redistribute anywhere with out permission. also mdni, this 18+. ageless blog will be blocked!

[lovemeanercowboy]

The Man in Me Masterlist | Jack Abbot

Summary: When Dr. Adamson switches Dr. Jenna Robinavitch to night shift during her last year of residency to get more hands-on trauma experience after noticing her older brother hovering over her on day shift. Nobody expects newly hired brooding ER cowboy Jack Abbot to fall in love with her.

🎧 Jack Abbot’s Spotify playlist

chapter I — August 14, 2017

chapter II — August 15, 2017

chapter III — August 17, 2017

chapter IV — August 18, 2017

chapter V — August 18, 2017

chapter VI — August 19, 2017

chapter VII — September 18, 2003

chapter VIII — August 20, 2017

chapter IX — August 21-22, 2017

chapter X — August 23, 2017

chapter XI — August 23-24, 2017

chapter XII — August 24, 2017

chapter XIII — August 24, 2017

[jacksabbotts]

introducing . . . MORGUE TECH!READER . ᵒ . 🥼 🩺 🩻

you ( morgue tech!reader ) are a shy, soft-spoken, and far too good for the world you work in—but dr. jack abbot wants you anyway. wants you especially because of it. he’s older, bigger, rough around the edges, and completely undone by the way you squirms in his lap and stumbles over your words.

you never had anyone take their time with you—never been praised, teased, or touched the way he plans to. and when he finds out just how untouched you really are?

he makes it his mission to teach you everything you didn’t know you needed.

this is not just a series — this is a world. this is out of body experience for morgue girl ( and the reader ). this is a life-altering. this is a soft cinematic universe built from spilt coffee, sterile fluorescents, and jack abbot's absurdly soft hands wrapped around someone who didn't think anyone would take care to notice. this is GOOD GIRL CONFESSIONS .

CHAPTER ONE — NINE ⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ completed ❪ 18.9k words ❫ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ follows the reluctant tension-filled evolution of jack abbott and a quiet, anxious morgue tech. it begins with exhaustion, mutual annoyance, and an unfortunate first impression. it ends ( temporarily ) in confessions, broken rules, and hands brushing too long by the trauma bay sink and a single earth shattering kiss.

⋆.˚ CHAPTER ONE .' cold and predictable ⋆.˚ CHAPTER TWO .' cold storage ⋆.˚ CHAPTER THREE .' a cold shoulder

⋆.˚ CHAPTER FOUR .' too cold to touch ⋆.˚ CHAPTER FIVE .' cold cut ⋆.˚ CHAPTER SIX .' caught in the cold

⋆.˚ CHAPTER SEVEN .' cold hands ⋆.˚ CHAPTER EIGHT .' left out in the cold ⋆.˚ CHAPTER NINE .' let in from the cold

CHAPTER TEN — NINETEEN ⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ ongoing ❪ tbd words ❫ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ follows post-confession. you’ve admitted too much. jack’s heard too much. and yet neither of you knows what to do with the silence that follows. you keep pretending. he keeps showing up. the hospital keeps getting hottee

⋆.˚ CHAPTER TEN .' heat source ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 001

⋆.˚ CHAPTER ELEVEN .' heat on contact ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 002

⋆.˚ CHAPTER TWELEVE .' after the heat ⋆.˚ CHAPTER THIRTEEN .' heat in your hands

⋆.˚ CHAPTER FOURTEEN .' the sound of heat ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 003

⋆.˚ CHAPTER FIFTEEN .' held in heat ( coming soon ) ⋆.˚ CHAPTER SIXTEEN .' heat flash ( coming soon )

⋆.˚ CHAPTER SEVENTEEN .' heat bitten ( coming soon ) ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 004

⋆.˚ CHAPTER EIGHTEEN .' heated words ( coming soon ) ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 005

⋆.˚ CHAPTER NINETEEN .' heat of the moment ( coming soon ) ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 006 ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 007 ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 008

˚₊‧ 𐙚 THE APPENDIX ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ NIGHT SHIFT — MORGUE NOTES

˚₊‧ 𐙚 *part one ˚₊‧ 𐙚 part two ˚₊‧ 𐙚 *part three ˚₊‧ 𐙚 *petnames from jack ˚₊‧ 𐙚 *petnames for jack

layout inspo ||| dividers by @cafekitsune & @uzmacchiato * ✷ ⊹ * ˚  main masterlist ||| more jack abbot ||| inbox

* ✷ ⊹ * ˚  REQUEST FOR jack abbot x morgue tech!reader

possible trigger warnings * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ lowercase intended!!!! medical trauma, mentions of death, hospital setting ( references to autopsies, corpses, injury, blood ), social anxiety, self-worth issues, body image insecurity ( specifically surrounding reader’s curvier body ), reader internalizes micro-aggressions and negative self-talk, emotional repression, low burn with eventual power imbalance ( not exploitative, but notable that jack is of higher rank but NOT reader's direct superior ), age gap dynamic, jack is gruff and emotionally avoidant at first ( but in his bf!era dw ), SMUT in later chapters ( pls read all content warnings posted at the beginning of each part )

[lostfracturess]

CALLING YOU HOME — SATORU GOJO

pairing — pilot!satoru gojo x air traffic controller!reader

summary — captain satoru gojo is the most infuriating pilot you've ever had the displeasure of guiding through tokyo's airspace. for months, he's turned every radio call into an opportunity to flirt, compliment your voice, and generally make your work life insufferable. you've never seen his face, but you're convinced he's exactly the kind of arrogant pilot you never want to deal with outside work. if only your heart would stop racing when you hear his voice.

word count — 16.5 k

genre/tags — aviation AU, pilot x air traffic controller, annoyance to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, workplace romance, voice kink if you squint, long distance relationship (kinda), he falls first and falls so HARD, i love him in this ugh, yearning endboss, dramatic love confessions bc we need

warnings — 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, mentions of grief/loss (death of family member), strong language, aviation emergencies, and satoru gojo being criminally sweet over radio frequencies.

author's note — friendssss i really hope u like this one bc i am obsessed lol. grab your headphones, play your favorite music and prepare for takeoff <3

masterlist + support my writing + ao3 + artwork by @3-aem

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to land.”

You didn’t even need to check the screen. You’d recognize his voice anywhere, even in your nightmares—warm, cocky, and already grinding on your nerves like nails on chalkboard.

“Miss me, honey?”

Your pen snapped in half. Around the control tower, heads turned in your direction. Maki, your longest colleague and friend, pressed her lips together, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Even Ijichi raised an eyebrow from his station. You hated them all a little for how they all enjoyed the situation so much.

You closed your eyes, counted to three, and then hit the transmission button. “Flight 447, you do realize you’re on a public frequency, right? Everyone can hear you.”

“As long as you’re listening, Control, that’s all that matters.”

“Lucky me,” you muttered, pulling up his flight information on the screen. Scattered clouds drifted past the tower’s angled windows, casting fleeting shadows over your cluttered workstation. “Also, you’re late, Captain.”

“By two minutes. Come on, that’s hardly anything.”

“More than enough time to get on my nerves.”

“I love it when you talk to me like that.”

Behind you, someone coughed—probably trying to hide a laugh.

“And I love it when you stop talking,” you shot back.

His laugh came through the radio, warm and amused. “Someone’s feisty today. Is the coffee in the tower that bad again?”

“Coffee’s fine. It’s the pilot that’s giving me a headache.”

“Mmm. I like it when your voice gets all defensive, beautiful.”

There it was again. Beautiful.

Always beautiful. Never ‘ma’am’ or ‘tower’ or even your call sign like every other normal fucking pilot with a shred of professionalism would do. With Gojo, it was always pretty, or beautiful, or—God help you—honey. Like he was talking to a date he wanted to charm, not calling for airspace clearance on public frequency.

You’d corrected him once early on. “Use proper radio protocol,” you’d said, but all he replied was, “Sorry, Control. Slipped. Won’t happen again, pretty.” 

It had happened again. And again. And again.

You leaned back in your chair, staring up at the ceiling and entertaining the fantasy of reaching through the frequency and strangle him with your headset cord. Instead, your fingers found the stress ball on your desk and squeezed until your knuckles went white.

“You don’t even know what I look like,” you said, frustrated.

“Your voice tells me everything I need to know. And I’m betting you’re even more beautiful than you sound.”

“Is that why you like hearing yourself talk so much? Because your voice tells you how pretty you are?”

He laughed. “Ouch. You’re brutal today, Control. Permission to land before you completely break my poor heart?”

“Flight 447, you’re cleared to land, runway 24L. Wind 240 at 8 knots. Try not to crash while you’re busy thinking about how charming you are.”

“Copy that, beautiful. And for the record? I wasn’t thinking about myself.” His voice dropped lower, not caring at all that he was on public frequency. “I was thinking about you.”

Heat crept up your neck. Around the tower, a few heads turned your way once more—grinning, and you wanted to punch them in the face. 

You were silent for a few seconds and you could basically hear his grin forming on the other end of the line.

“Looks like I’ve got you blushing. Well then, see you on the ground, Control.”

More heat crept up your neck. You yanked off your headset and slammed it down on the desk, resisting the urge to scream into a stack of paperwork. Goddamn it, he made you want to quit your job. Or strangle him. Or both.

You looked out the tower’s window just in time to watch his plane break through the clouds and touch down. A fucking textbook perfect landing. Of course it was. Captain Satoru Gojo was, without question, the most infuriating pilot you’d ever had the displeasure of guiding in. And unfortunately, he was also the best.

It had started a few months ago when he began regularly flying the international routes from Japan to Central Europe—the very same routes you’d specifically requested when you transferred to Haneda. 

The 2 AM flights? The twelve hour shifts from hell? The ones that made most controllers question all their life choices and develop an unhealthy, codependent relationship with the espresso machine? 

You loved them.

These were the long flights where pilots were usually dead tired and just wanted to get home. Communication was professional and efficient. No small talk, no unnecessary chatter, just vectors, altitudes, and a few polite acknowledgments. You could guide a Boeing 777 from Tokyo to Frankfurt with maybe twenty lines of dialogue, max. That was the dream.

These pilots had been airborne for twelve hours or longer—the last thing they wanted was a chatty air traffic controller stretching out their shift with unnecessary conversation. And the last thing you wanted was to listen to their rambling. You loved those quiet and professional pilots—the ones you barely had to talk to, just guide them in and call it a day. Great. Easy work. You loved your job when it was uncomplicated.

While your colleagues dealt with the chaos of domestic flights—tight turnarounds, grumbling pilots, weather complaints, gate drama and all that shit—you got the stern and serious long-distance flyers.

Until Captain Satoru Gojo.

The first time you handled Flight 447’s approach out of Prague, you braced for the usual. Someone who’d been flying for thirteen hours straight and just wanted to land, deplane, and find the nearest bed. What you got instead was a happy voice that sounded like the man had just woken from the greatest nap of his lifetime and could easily fly for another thirteen hours.

“Tokyo Control, Flight 447 requesting descent. And might I say... what a beautiful night it is up here.”

You blinked at your radar screen. It was 2:03 AM. Cloudy skies. Visibility barely above minimum levels. Nothing about it was beautiful.

Most pilots at this hour could barely remember their own call signs. But not Gojo. Gojo sounded wide awake and relaxed—and, unfortunately, talkative. 

God, he talked so much. Always cracking jokes, always so cocky, always dragging out what should’ve been a thirty second exchange into a five minute monologue over the radio.

“Flight 447, descend and maintain flight level 240.”

“Descending to 240. Had to adjust our approach three times tonight because of wind shear. Amazing how much the atmosphere changes in just a few thousand feet. Did you know that—”

“Flight 447, contact Tokyo Aproach on 119.7.”

He sighed. “Copy that, beautiful. Always a pleasure chatting with you.”

It started professional enough—well, as professional as someone could be while constantly calling air traffic control ‘beautiful’—but overtime, he got more and more flirty. Somewhere around the fifth or seventh flight, you guided him in, he stopped sounding like a pilot and started sounding like a man leaving voicemail notes to his girlfriend. 

“Good morning, gorgeous.”

“Did you miss my voice, honey?”

“Until next time, beautiful.”

Maybe it was his personality, as if he simply couldn’t help himself—like he’d physically explode if he didn’t borderline sexual harass his ground crew and was naturally incapable of having a normal conversation. But goddamn, did it annoy you.

He’d never even seen you. Didn’t know your name, wouldn’t recognize your face if you passed him in the terminal. He probably couldn’t even point to the tower from his cockpit window. And yet, every transmission felt like he thought he was on private frequency with you, and not broadcasting on public monitored by half the airspace.

And oh my God, the rambling—the fucking rambling. And, of course, you were his favorite audience.

“You know, Control, I was reading this article about albatrosses during my layover in Warsaw and it got me thinking. Did you know they can fly for years without ever touching ground, like literally sleeping while they fly? Can you imagine? They use these tiny wind gradients over the waves to do that. Makes our fuel consumption look pretty inefficient, doesn’t it?”

You already felt your soul leaving your body.

“Although I bet you could optimize their route better than they can to save even more energy. You’ve got such a lovely voice for giving directions. Very authoritative. I like that—”

Sometimes he’d yap for minutes until you got so annoyed that you’d rip off your headset before he could finish whatever outrageous story he was about to finish and waved at Ijichi to take over. Poor Ijichi—an actual saint and unfortunately still a rookie, so he was your victim—would sigh, slid on his headset and took over the frequency to reply to Gojo’s rambling about birds in a very distinctly male, distinctly unimpressed voice.

“Flight 447, this is Tokyo Control. Please state your current altitude.”

A pause. “Oh. Um. Flight level 380. Sorry—Is the other controller… did she…?”

“Flight 447, maintain current altitude and heading. Contact Approach on 119.7.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Ijichi shoot you a pained look and mouthed, “Your boyfriend’s looking for you” while you pretended to be very busy with paperwork, highlighting the same line of a weather report you’d already read four times.

You’d complained to your supervisor, of course. Marched into Yaga’s office with a list of incidents and timestamps of what you considered to be highly unprofessional behaviour that was interfering with air traffic operations.

Yaga had listened, occasionally nodding, while you explained in detail why Captain Gojo’s voice should be banned from all airspace. When you finished, he’d leaned back in his chair and given you that look—the one supervisors gave when they were about to tell you something you didn’t want to hear.

“Has he ever caused a delay?” Yaga asked.

“Well, no, but—”

“Missed a radio call?”

“No, however—”

“Failed to follow vectors or altitude assignments?”

“That’s not the point—”

“Has he ever said anything explicitly inappropriate? Sexual harassment, offensive language, anything that would violate communications protocols?”

You’d opened your mouth, then closed it. You were fighting a losing battle.

Yaga had shrugged and pointed out that Gojo never said anything explicitly inappropriate, never caused delays, and had the cleanest safety record of any pilot flying commercial routes in Japan. Zero incidents, zero violations, zero passenger complaints. He was the perfect pilot.

“The guy’s annoying but harmless,” Yaga had said at last, and slid your complaint folder back across his desk.

Harmless. Right.

Harmless if you didn’t count the fact that he was actively driving you insane and making you seriously consider changing careers. Or at least requesting a transfer to cargo flights, where the pilots were too busy dealing with departures every thirty minutes to spend time talking about stupid bird flyting techniques.

But damn it—you worked so hard for this position. You were a certified, professional air traffic controller with five years on the radar and an impeccable safety record. You’d studied for two years to pass the brutal exams, survived months in training simulations and clawed your way up from ground control to tower to approach and finally to the international routes. 

You directed aircraft worth billions of dollars, carrying hundreds of lives, through some of the most complex and congested airspace in Asia. You coordinated with air traffic controllers in twelve different countries, handled language barriers, time zones, techchnical delays, and medical emergencies—all while being always fucking calm and polite. 

Okay, scratch the polite part. But you got the job done, and that’s what mattered. And you were not about to throw it all away because one stupid, obnoxious pilot with an equally stupid, attractive voice was too dense to tell the difference between air traffic control and fucking Tinder.

Okay, forget about the calm part, too.

It didn’t help that your colleagues found the whole thing all too amusing. Your colleague Maki—who handled mostly domestic routes and therefore dealt with normal, professional pilots—had already labelled Gojo your ‘work husband’.

And every time his flight number popped up on the radar, she’d make kissy faces in your direction and sing, “Oh, your boyfriend’s calling,” to which you’d reply “He’s not my boyfriend.” Or worse, she’d lean over your shoulder while he was in the middle of yet another monologue, whispering when you’d finally ask him out. Of course, she knew he’d hear every word on the other end of the radio, prompting him to tease you with, “She’s right. When will you finally ask me?”

“Flight 447, turn left heading 090, descend to flight level 200.”

“Left 090, down to 200. And might I add that you sound particularly lovely today, Control? Did you do something different with your… well, I can’t see your hair, but I bet it looks very pretty.”

Maki would choke on her laughter like a middle schooler watching her crush talk, and you’d have to clench your fists to stop yourself from punching them both.

And it didn’t help that everyone loved him, of course. 

Everyone except you, apparently.

The ground crew basically fought over who got to service his aircraft. You’d see a swarm of orange vests crowding Gate 7 whenever Flight 447 rolled in—like teenage fangirls waiting backstage for their favourite boy band. It was ridiculous.

You’ve seen how the gate agents would always check their hair and straighten their ties. Hana from passenger services bought new lipstick “just in case” she ran into Captain Gojo during a layover. 

Even the janitors—the fucking janitors—somehow developed a sudden obsession with the floor around Gate 7. Mr. Takeshi, who’d been mopping this place since the airport was built, now took his sweet time in that exact area. Like. What the fuck.

It was like the entire airport had developed a collective crush on a man most of them had never even spoken to. All based on stories and the occasional glimpse of him walking through the terminal in his pilot uniform.

You’d never actually seen him. In the months he’d been flying your routes, your shifts always ended right before he arrived—or you were stuck up in the tower when he was on the ground. Like you existed in parallel universes. You guided his plane through the airspace, but never actually crossed paths on the ground.

Everyone said he was stupidly pretty—so damn dreamy and everything. You could’ve looked him up, googled him, stalked the airport intranet. But you didn’t. For all you knew, he was sixty with a beer belly and balding. But unfortunately, he also had an infuriatingly attractive voice over radio communication.

Which only made it worse.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

It was one of those days where everything had gone wrong the moment you’d stepped into the tower. The coffee machine was broken, spitting out something between coffee grounds and mud. Your computer crashed twice during the morning shift, erasing twenty minutes of logged flight data. And to top it off, Ijichi had called in sick, leaving you to handle both international and domestic flights with only Maki as backup—who was currently tied up managing a medical diversion across three different frequencies.

So when Flight 447’s call sign appeared on your radar screen a full twenty minutes ahead of schedule, you felt your eye twitch.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors for approach.”

You glared at the radar. Of course he was early. And of fucking course he was screwing up your carefully timed arrival window. You’d scheduled him between two other flights, and now you had to rearrange everything yet again.

“Flight 447, turn left heading 180, descend and maintain 3,000 feet.”

“Left 180, down to 3,000. You sound tense, Control. Long shift?”

Deep breath. Remember, violence is not an option.

“Just doing my job, 447.”

“Ouch. That’s definitely tension. Let me guess—computer crash? Did someone steal your lunch? Ah wait, I know—the coffee machine spat out mud again, didn’t it?”

You blinked at your screen. How could he possibly—

“Flight 447, maintain current heading and altitude.”

“Come on, don’t be like that. I brought you something from Zurich. Might help improve your mood.”

You paused, finger hovering over the radio button. “You… brought me something?”

“Mhm. You know those famous Swiss chocolatiers? Heard they make the best chocolate in Europe, so I picked some up for you.”

You stared at your screen for a beat, unsure whether to feel weirdly flattered or wildly uncomfortable. Probably both.

“You don’t even know who I am.”

“I know enough,” he said, still annoyingly casual. “I know you prefer late international routes because they’re usually quiet and professional. I know you drink your coffee black, because I’ve heard you complain—more than once—that no one washes out the cream dispenser in the break room, and that it will one day cause a biohazard. Which, judging by your mood today, I’m guessing no one’s done that in a while, so now the good machine’s off to maintenance again, and you’re stuck with that old one that just spits out grounds.”

A pause.

“And I know you stay late to help train the newbies, because I’ve heard your voice in the background on calls. I have to say, you’ve got this calm, patient tone that makes it almost sound like you’re not seconds away from strangling them. It’s kind of adorable, really.”

You sat up straighter. How did he know all that? And more importantly, why had he noticed all that?

You didn’t respond right away, unsure what to respond at all. Then, finally, you clicked your radio.

“Flight 447, turn right heading 240. Contact Approach on 119.7.”

“Wait, that’s it? No ‘thank you’ or ‘wow, you’re so thoughtful for bringing me treats form overseas’? I declared that stuff at customs, you know. It was a whole ordeal.”

Despite your awful morning, your lip twitched. “You declared chocolate at customs?”

“Had to. They were weirdly suspicious about a pilot carrying so much chocolate in his carry-on. I told them it was for someone special, and they got all sentimental and waved me through.”

“You told customs agents I was special?”

“I told them the truth. …Though I may have implied you were my girlfriend to avoid further questioning.”

“You what?”

His laugh crackled through the headset, way too pleased with himself. “Relax, beautiful. Customs agents don’t exactly hang out with air traffic controllers. Your secret identity is safe.”

“Flight 447, I’m transferring you to Approach. Stop inventing fake relationships with me at international borders.”

“So we’re not dating? Huh. That’s news to me.”

“I’m doing my job.”

“Yeah. And your job involves listening to me, technically speaking.”

“My job involves keeping you from colliding with other planes, not entertaining your delusions.”

“See? You care about my safety. Such a good girlfriend, Control.”

You could almost hear the smirk through the static. Across the tower, Maki—finally free from her emergency—was trying desperately to look anywhere but your direction. She was listening too, you realized, her face reddening as she barely held in her laughter.

“Flight 447 switch to Approach now, or I will reroute you to Osaka instead.”

“You wouldn’t dare. You’d miss me too much.”

“Try me.”

“Okay, okay, I’m switching,” he said, still laughing. “I’ll make sure the chocolate gets delivered to your gate. It’s got your name on it. Well… your call sign, anyway. Couldn’t exactly ask for your real name without sounding like a creep. Oh, and there’s a little something extra in the box, too.”

Your finger froze over the transmit button. “What kind of extra?”

“Just a little something. See you on the ground, beautiful.”

The line went silent as he switched to Approach, leaving you staring at your screen with a whole lot of annoyance, curiosity, and something dangerously close to anticipation swirling in your head.

Maki rolled her chair over without missing a beat. “Did he just say he brought you chocolate? From Switzerland?”

“Apparently.”

“And declared you his girlfriend to customs?”

“I hate him.”

“And there’s something extra waiting for you at the gate?”

You gave her a warning look. “Stop that.”

“You realize most guys don’t even text back. And he flew across eleven time zones and smuggled in fancy chocolate for you. Yeah, no one does that unless they’re into you.”

“It’s creepy.”

“Sure,” she said. “So creepy that you’re smiling about it.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You absolutely are.” She leaned closer. “And you’re totally going to check the gate during your break.”

You turned back to your screen. “I have work to do.”

“Right. Want me to cover for you while you go see what the handsome pilot brought you?”

“I’m not—” 

Your radar lit up. “Tower, this is Flight 892 requesting vectors for approach.” Saved by traffic, or whatever. You put your headset back on, thankful for the distraction, and focused on the radar. 

You were definitely not thinking about Swiss chocolate.

Or whatever extra he brought.

Not even a little.

Okay, maybe a little.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

You waited until Flight 447 was safely out of range and someone else’s problem before making your move. The tower had quieted into its usual evening rhythm—slower, calmer, manageable. Most of the midday traffic was gone. And you? You were definitely just walking to the gate to, you know, get your steps in. Obviously.

“Off to investigate your love offerings?” Maki called as you headed for the elevator.

“Gate operations check,” you tried, but you couldn’t fool her.

The box was sitting right there at the international gate desk—impossible to miss. It was white and elegant, wrapped with a dark green ribbon, and with your controller call sign handwritten on the tag. Hana, the gate agent on duty, lit up the moment she saw you.

“Oh! You’re Control Seven! Captain Gojo dropped that off a few hours ago. He was very specific that it had to go to ‘the controller with the most beautiful voice in aviation.’” She giggled like a schoolgirl. “He’s so romantic.”

You stared at the box. It was bigger than you’d expected with a fancy logo that suggested the box probably cost more than your monthly food budget.

“Did he… say anything else?”

“Just that you’d had a rough day and deserved something sweet.” Hana sighed. “He’s so thoughtful. And his eyes? Like a winter sky.”

Winter sky? My god. You swore everyone around here was losing their goddamn minds over this man. You were so fed up with the collective swooning, you were starting to wonder if you were the only one left immune to his bullshit.

“Right. Well. Thanks.”

Back at your console, you set it down and stared at it as if it were a ticking bomb. Maki appeared at your side, peering over your shoulder.

“Holy shit. Is that from that famous Swiss brand? Do you even know how expensive that place is?”

“It’s just chocolate.”

“Just chocolate?” Maki carefully lifted the lid. Inside, each handmade confection was perfectly nestled in its own spot. “These are, like, forty bucks each. There’s at least thirty pieces in here.”

Ijichi gave a low whistle. “Your pilot boyfriend just dropped twelve hundred dollars on chocolate for you.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” But your eyes were still glued to the box, your brain struggling to process the fact that someone had just casually spent more than your rent on Swiss truffles. Someone who’d never even seen your face.

“Oh my God, try one,” Maki said, already plucking out a champagne truffle. “Don’t be shy.”

You picked a dark chocolate filled with salted caramel and bit into it. It was... really good. Incredible, even. Probably the best thing you’d ever tasted. Which, somehow, only made this entire situation worse.

“Girl, you are so lucky,” Maki sighed, popping another piece into her mouth. “A hot pilot who brings you fancy chocolate? Where do I sign up for that kind of harassment?”

“He’s probably not even attractive. I’ve never actually seen him.”

Both Maki and Ijichi froze, their mouths full of chocolate.

“Wait,” Maki said slowly. “You’ve never seen him?”

“Our shifts don’t overlap. I’m always in the tower when his flights come in.”

“Oh my God.” Maki turned to her computer. “I’m looking him up. The airport has photos of all the regular pilots for security, right?”

“Tower, this is Flight 234 requesting vectors for approach,” crackled your headset. 

You grabbed your radio. “Flight 234, turn right heading 090, descend and maintain 4,000 feet.”

You moved quickly back to your station, eyes fixed on the radar screen. Behind you, you could feel Maki and Ijichi staring at you, clearly waiting for you to come back to them to gossip, but you waved them off without turning around. 

As you guided the aircraft in, your hand absently toyed with the ribbon around the box, and that’s when you noticed the ‘something extra’. Tucked beneath the chocolates was a postcard that showed the Swiss alps. You turned the card around.

“For the voice that always guides me home. Thank you for keeping me safe up there.” — S

You shivered.

Out of annoyance. Obviously. Not because of the note. Or the postcard. Or the very stupid, very warm feeling creeping up your neck. Nope. Pure irritation. And maybe a tiny bit of cardiac distress. From rage. Clearly.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

You’d barely slept the night before. Every time you closed your eyes, you’d thought about stupidly expensive Swiss chocolate, that annoyingly sincere note, and the way his voice had softened when he’d called you special. It was infuriating. You were a professional, rational adult, not someone who lost sleep over a cocky pilot with a bedroom voice that was clearly a walking red flag.

Yet here you were at 12:28 PM, exhausted and surviving on your fourth cup of awful Tower coffee because an emergency landing had turned your normal shift into a fourteen hour marathon. A passenger going into labour during a flight from Beijing had caused half the Pacific to be rerouted, and by the time the situation had been handled, the night shift was understaffed and you’d agreed—more or less voluntarily—to stay and help out.

The tower had gone still in the way airports only do at night. Just you and your collegue Kai on shift, and him busy on a separate channel, handling a delayed cargo inbound. Somewhere below, the terminal lights flickered as the cleaning crews did laps. You rested your chin in your palm and tried not to hate everything.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting approach clearance.”

It took your brain a second to catch up. Flight 447. He’d just arrived from Paris. Of course. You took a breath.

“Flight 447, unable to clear for approach at this time. We have outbound traffic. Maintain current altitude and turn left heading 270 for holding.”

“Copy that. Left 270. Long night down there?”

You rubbed your eyes. “Medical emergency earlier. You’ll be in the hold for about an hour.”

“Roger. Hey—did you get the chocolates?"

Despite your exhaustion, you felt heat creep up your neck. Damn him. “Yes. Thank you. They were... unnecessary.”

“But good?”

You exhaled. “Really good.”

“Knew it. You sound tired, Control. How long you been on?”

You checked your watch. “Fourteen hours.”

“You shouldn’t be pulling shifts that long. You always look after everyone else but you’ve got to take care of yourself too, you know.”

You paused, the words hitting you sideways. Maybe it was the fatigue making you soft, or maybe it was the fact that, for once, he didn’t sound like he was trying to get a rise out of you. He sounded genuinely concerned—and it threw you off more than any flirtation ever had. You didn’t even have the energy to fight him on it.

“Someone had to cover.”

“Not at the cost of your own health. You drinking water? Eating real food? And I don’t mean the sandwiches they sell in the vending machines in the gates.”

“I did eat something a few hours ago. I’m okay. We had a pregnant passenger go into labor. Coordinated three hospitals and rerouted six aircraft, then landed them priority.”

“Is she okay?”

“Baby girl, born healthy. I heard from the flight attendant that they’ve named her Sky. It’s kinda cheesy.”

“That’s beautiful.” His voice was soft. “You helped bring a little life into the world tonight.”

“It’s just part of the job.”

“It’s not just your job, you know that,” he said gently. “It’s you being the person people count on when it really matters.”

“I don’t know…”

“You know why I always ask for this route?”

“Because you like to annoy me?”

He laughed quietly. “Because your voice is the best part of my day. Doesn’t matter what went wrong, how difficult the passengers, or how many delays we had to deal with—the moment I hear you on frequency… I know I’m okay. I know I’m home.”

You blinked. Words tangled somewhere between your chest and your mouth, but none made it out. How could they? Not with your heart thudding like it was trying to escape. Not with your lungs suddenly feeling too small. 

It was silent in the tower. Kai was still busy on the other frequency with his cargo flight, leaving you alone with nothing but Gojo’s soft breathing in your headset and the pounding of your pulse. 

You pressed your forehead to your arms on the desk, willing your heart rate to slow. Eventually, quietly, you said, “Why? Why are you being so… like this? You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough. I know you work too hard and care too much. I know you’re calm even when the tower’s on fire. I know you have the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard, and you use it to keep people safe.”

You could barely breathe.

“You deserve more than what this job takes from you, you know,” he added, almost like an afterthought.

“You’re so stupid,” you whispered, the insult so soft it barely had teeth.

“You’re exhausted. Lie to me tomorrow.” A pause. “You know, the cherry blossoms along the Seine were beautiful in Paris.” His voice grew wistful, and you closed your eyes, letting the sound wash over you in the quiet tower. “I’d love to show you someday.”

“Your girlfriend probably wouldn’t appreciate you taking other women on romantic trips to Paris.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said without hesitation. “I wish you were my girlfriend.”

You took another deep breath, slower this time, but it didn’t help. Your face felt hot, your pulse wouldn’t settle, and worst of all, you couldn’t even pretend it wasn’t happening. What the fuck were you supposed to do with that information? 

Normally you would have hung up by now, would have found some cutting remark to shut down whatever this was becoming. But maybe it was the exhaustion seeping into your bones, or the way his voice had gone so unsual gentle, that made you let it happen—this slow unraveling of the careful distance you’d built between yourself and the voice that had somehow become more important to you than you wanted to admit

“You’re insane.”

“You’re beautiful.”

You pressed your forehead deeper into the crook of your arm, as if you could bury the whole situation under your sleeves. As if he couldn’t still hear every shaky breath of yours over the radio.

“What? No comeback?” he teased. “You really must be tired.”

“I hate how you say stuff like that,” you mumbled into your sleeve, “when you know I’m too tired to fight back.”

“Sounds like good timing, then.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Mhm. I like when you sound all sleepy,” he said, lower now, almost like he was smiling. “It’s really cute.”

“Shouldn’t you be asking if I have a boyfriend or something?”

“Sounds like you want me to ask you.”

“I don’t.” You exhaled slowly, turning your head so your cheek pressed against your arm. “I’m not looking for anything.”

“Good,” he said. “So no boyfriend. Because it would be really awkward for me to take you to Paris if you had one. Boyfriends tend to get weird about that sort of thing.”

A soft laugh escaped before you could stop it. “You don’t even know me. Why are you so persistent?”

It was silent for a while—so long it made your skin itch. You glanced at the console. Still active. But then his voice returned.

“Because for months, your voice has been the only thing that’s felt like home,” he said. “Every flight, every approach, every time you say my call sign... it feels like coming home. And maybe that’s stupid. Maybe I’m just a pilot who’s spent too many nights alone in hotels, wondering what it’d be like to hear you say my name—my real name—just once, but I…”

The tower felt impossibly still around you, save for the sound of his soft breathing in your ear and the heavy press of something strange in your chest.

“Flight 447—”

“Can I ask you something? And you can say no.”

“…What?”

“Do you want to switch to a private frequency?”

You shouldn’t. It was a clear breach of communication policy. You knew that. But the tower was empty, Kai was distracted, and there was something in the way he said it that made you want to say yes so terribly much.

“Frequency 121.9,” you said.

“Copy that. Switching now.”

Your heart thudded. You flipped over to the private channel, palms slightly clammy against the controls, and waited.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 on private frequency.”

“I’m here.”

You could hear the smile in his voice when he answered. “Tell me something about you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Doesn’t matter. I just want to listen to your voice.”

You went quiet for a beat, still resting your head on your arms, the headset cord wrapped loosely around your fingers. Your body was heavy with exhaustion, but something warm had started to bloom low in your chest.

“That’s… I don’t know what to say.”

“Start simple. What did you have for breakfast?”

Despite everything, you almost smiled. “Coffee.”

“Just coffee?” He groaned. “That’s terrible for you. You need read food.”

“Says the man who probably only eats airplane food and orders hotel room service.”

“I make great scrambled eggs, actually,” he said, a little smug. “Secret ingredient is a little cream cheese folded in at the end.”

“You cook?”

“Mhmm. And I make the best carbonara.”

“According to who?”

“According to me. And I’m a very reliable source.”

You smiled again. “Very humble, too.”

“Absolutely. So, what about you? What do you do when you’re not busy keeping pilots from crashing into each other?”

You surprised yourself by answering. You told him about the pottery class you barely had time for on weekends, how you were trying to teach yourself guitar but could only play three chords and a more or less decent version of ‘Wonderwall’. You admitted to watch trash reality TV while folding laundry, and how your poor balcony basil plant had died three times and counting despite your best efforts. 

It just... flowed. And it felt good. Comforting, even. 

You found yourself sharing more than you meant to, your voice softer than usual in the quiet of the tower, like the distance between you made it easier to be honest. 

You hadn’t realized until now how much you’d come to like hearing his voice. Not the cocky, smug tone he usually used on open frequency—but this version. Soff and warm in a way that felt almost intimate. Like he actually cared about your answer. Like he actually saw you, even from thirty thousand feet away.

You were quiet for a moment, then asked, “Why did you become a pilot?”

A breath passed. Maybe two.

“I had a little sister. She died when she was twelve—leukemia.” He paused, and you could hear the slight hitch in his breathing. “She was obsessed with those National Geographic documentaries, always making plans about all the places she wanted to see—the Andes in Peru, hiking the Highlands in Scotland, and seeing the Northern Lights in Iceland. She had this whole notebook full of destinations she wanted to visit, with pictures cut out from magazines.”

You didn’t move, afraid even a shift might break the moment.

“She never left Japan. Never even got on a plane. But the day before she died, she made me promise I’d see the world for her. That I’d go to all the places and tell her about them.” Another shaky breath. “So I became a pilot. And every flight, every city, every sunset high above the clouds—she’s with me. I take pictures for her. Collect postcards.” His laugh barely held. “Probably sounds crazy.”

“It doesn’t sound crazy at all.” You sat up straighter in your chair and rolled your sleeves down, suddenly feeling the night air’s chill. “So the postcards from Zurich…”

“I brought one for her, and one for you. I thought... maybe you’d like it too.”

“Flight 447,” you said softly, unsure what else to do with the weight in your chest.

“She would’ve liked you,” he added. “She always said the most important people are the ones who make you feel like home—even when you’re thirty thousand feet in the air, circling your home airport at in the middle of the night because you cannot land.”

You were silent for a while, unable to find words.

“Control? Can I ask you something else?”

“…Yeah.”

“Would you like to go out with me?”

You didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t even breathe at first, hand hovering near the console, but instead of replying, you slowly set your headset down and stood—legs unsteady. You crossed the small space behind your chair, ran a hand through your hair, tried to get your lungs to work again.

You weren’t ready. Not for this. Not for him sounding that sincere. He was still up there, circling in the dark, waiting for something you weren’t sure you could give. You braced your hands on the edge of the desk, heart pounding, and finally lowered yourself back into the chair. Slipped the headset on again.

“I…” you began, but the rest of the sentence never came. Your throat tightened too much.

“You don’t have to answer now. Just think about it, okay?”

Then Kai’s voice cut through your main frequency. “Control Seven, runway’s clear for your holding traffic.”

You switched back to the private frequency, your voice steadier than you felt. 

“Flight 447, you’re cleared for approach, runway 24L. Wind 180 at 5 knots.”

“Roger, cleared for approach runway 24L.”

You hesitated, your finger trembling slightly on the radio button, then softly, “Land safe, Satoru.”

Silence stretched between you, each moment an unbearable weight as you waited for him to speak, with only the soft static of the frequency for company. When his voice finally came back, it was barely above a whisper.

“You’re so unfair, Control. How am I supposed to sleep now that I’ve finally heard you say my name like that?”

Your chest tightened, a fragile tenderness settling in your chest, and you closed your eyes, lost in the sudden intimacy of the moment.

“See you on the ground, Control… and sleep easy tonight.”

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

After that night, everything changed.

What had once been the most frustrating part of your job had quietly become the part you looked forward to most. You told yourself it was just the routine, the familiarity. A comforting voice between the chaos. But when Flight 447’s call sign popped up on your radar, your chest would do that stupid flutter before your brain could stop it. And the professional distance you’d worked so hard to maintain began crumbling piece by fragile piece.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors, and good morning to my favorite controller.”

You didn’t even try to hide your smile anymore. “Good morning, Captain. Turn left heading 180, descend and maintain 4,000.”

“How’s that terrible tower coffee treating you today?”

“Still tastes like mud. But it’s keeping me awake.”

“You really need someone to bring you proper coffee sometime.”

“Flight 447, contact Approach on 119.7.”

“Will do, beautiful. Save me a cup of that mud, will you?”

You caught yourself still smiling after he’d switched frequencies. 

Your colleagues noticed the change immediately. Maki would glance over with that knowing grin the second his call sign blinked onto your screen. Sometimes she didn’t even say anything—just raised her eyebrows and took a dramatically loud sip of her green tea.

Even Ijichi who was usually so quiet and reserved, seemed to soften. Now, he’d offer a small, genuinely happy smile when Satoru’s voice came through the speakers, like a younger brother observing something inevitable unfold.

The conversations with Satoru grew longer, more personal. He’d tell you about the cities he flew to—the morning mist over Prague’s cobblestone streets, the way the late afternoon sunlight painted the Alps during his approach to Munich, the bustling markets in Vienna that smelled like roasted chestnuts and warm strudel.

“There’s this little bakery in Prague,” he said once. “Sells cinnamon sugar spirals on a stick that taste like sugar bread. I picked some up for you and will drop them by your gate when I land, though they might be a bit smushed from the flight, but I swear they’re really good.”

You imagined him standing there, maybe still in his uniform, coffee in one hand and some pastry in the other, sunlight filtering through narrow European streets. You wished you could’ve been there with him.

One Tuesday evening, he came on frequency a few minutes early. “I saw the Northern Lights last night for the first time,” he said, skipping all pretense of small talk. “Over Helsinki. It looked incredible. I took about a hundred photos, even though they don’t do it justice, but… I tried.”

“Your sister would’ve loved that.”

“Yeah. She would have.” His voice grew soft. “I wish you could have seen them too. With me.”

You hadn’t planned on any of this. You didn’t know where it was going. But every word felt a little easier than the last. Like you were building something one flight at a time, stitched together from shared late night conversations, shared silences, and a voice that had somehow made its way under your skin. And you hadn’t even seen his face.

At some point, the flirting had stopped feeling like a game. You weren’t sure when the shift happened, only that it had. One day you were rolling your eyes at his compliments, and the next… you caught yourself smiling before he even switched on the mic.

He’d compliment your voice and your hair he’d never even seen, and you’d toss something sharp right back at his ego. He’d ask about your day like it mattered, and you’d ask how the clouds looked up there in the sky. 

Somewhere between the banter and clearance codes, you stopped resisting the warmth that bloomed in your chest every time he called you beautiful. Stopped pretending it didn’t matter. Stopped pretending you didn’t wait for his call sign, or feel the flutter in your stomach when he said your call sign like it was something he’d been waiting all day to say.

“You sound tired today,” he said one afternoon, somewhere over the East China Sea, his voice laced with concern.

You stifled a yawn. “Double shift. Someone called in sick.”

“That’s the third time this month. You need to take better care of yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“When’s the last time you took a day off? And I mean not just sleeping in because you worked late, but actually doing something for yourself?”

You paused, thought about it, and realized you couldn’t remember.

“That settles it. When I get back from the Zagreb route next week, we’re going somewhere. Somewhere with decent coffee and food that doesn’t come from a vending machine.”

“Is that a request or a demand, Captain?”

“It’s a promise.”

Late night conversations on the private frequency became your favorite kind of bad habit. You told yourself you weren’t abusing the system—you just happened to monitor 121.9 a little more closely on nights when you knew he was in the air.

When the tower thinned out to near silence, leaving only the hum of the monitors, and his overnight flights aligned perfectly with your shifts, you always found a reason to switch channels.

“Can’t sleep up there?” you’d ask when his voice came through the static.

“Autopilot’s handling the boring parts. Thought I’d check on my favorite insomniac instead.”

“I’m not an insomniac,” you’d say, leaning into the console, exhausted but smiling. “I’m working.”

“It’s 3 AM. You should be in bed, curled up with a blanket and binge some Netflix.”

“Someone’s gotta guide the pretty pilots through the night sky.”

He never missed a beat. “Just one pretty pilot in particular, I hope. Otherwise I might get jealous.”

And you let him win these little exchanges. Because the truth was, the static of 121.9 had quietly become where you truly felt yourself. A place where your voice softened, where the walls came down, where you weren’t Control Seven—you were just you. Tired, overcaffeinated, sometimes frustrated with everything—but somehow still able to breathe easier when his voice filled your headset.

You didn’t have a name for what was growing between you—but it was there. Steady. Constant. Cruising at altitude and waiting for the moment one of you was brave enough to land.

Those conversations could last hours—him circling above the Pacific while you guided other aircraft, both of you stealing moments between official duties to talk about everything and nothing. He’d tell you about passengers he’d met, you’d share stories about the quirky new controller in the tower. He’d describe the view from his cockpit, you’d explain what the radar looked like from your perspective.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we’d met differently?” he asked one night.

“How do you mean?”

“If I wasn’t a pilot, and you weren’t up in a tower. If we just... bumped into each other at a grocery store or something.”

“Would you have still talked my ear off about arctic birds?”

“Probably.” He laughed. “Though I might have started with the weather like a normal person.”

“I don’t think you know how to be normal, Captain.”

You found yourself looking forward to his flights. When Flight 447 appeared on your radar, it was like a switch flipped on inside your chest. And when his route changed and he wasn’t there you caught yourself glancing at the flight board more than necessary. If his flight was delayed by weather or mechanical issues, you’d feel it settle heavy in your chest like stones until his call sign appeared on your screen.

“Miss me?” he’d tease whenever your shifts missed each other and the silence stretched too long.

“You wish.”

“I do, actually. Horribly.”

You rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see it. “The frequency’s been blessedly quiet without you. You wouldn’t believe how efficiently I can work without your constant interruptions.”

“Liar. You were bored as hell.”

“Flight 447, I’m transferring you to Approach before your big ego causes your plane to crash.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little to late for that, Control? It’s this big since you said my name that one time.”

You groaned, pressing your palm to your forehead, but you were smiling. Always smiling. And he knew it. You both did. And pretending otherwise had started to feel pointless.

“…I missed you.”

You leaned forward, arms crossed on the edge of your console, and hunched your shoulders, trying to shake off the shiver that traced down your spine at the sound of his voice in your ear.

“Approach is waiting, Captain.”

A few weeks had passed since that first private frequency conversation, and you still hadn’t given him a direct answer about the date. But somewhere between his stories about sunrises over the Himalayas and your chaotic work anecdotes, the question had become less about whether and more about when. Even if you didn’t have the courage to admit it yet.

“So,” he said one Thursday evening, while preparing for approach, “about that date…”

Your heart stuttered in the smallest, stupidest way.

“I know a little café in Shibuya. It’s away from the main tourist spots and makes the best matcha lattes in Tokyo. Perfect place for two hardworking colleagues to grab a coffee.”

“We are colleagues, Flight 447.”

“Colleagues who happen to enjoy each other’s company.”

“Colleagues who work together professionally.”

“Colleagues who talk on private frequencies at 2 AM about the Northern Lights and their horrible exes.” His voice carried that familiar teasing note. “Come on, what’s the worst that could happen? I promise not to talk about aircraft separation minimums the whole time.”

“The worst that could happen is that it gets complicated.”

“It’s already complicated.”

You were quiet for a moment, knowing he was right. You shifted slightly in your chair, fingers idly twirling the cable of your headset.

“Flight 447, contact Approach on 119.7.”

“The café’s called Blue Mountain,” he said before switching. “Saturday afternoon. If you’re free.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Later that night, you lay on your back in the dark, staring at the ceiling of your apartment as the last traces of twilight faded from deep purple to black outside your open window, and replayed every conversation, every laugh, every time he’d called you beautiful.

You were a grown woman. A professional. You managed emergencies, rerouted aircraft in storm systems, made decisions in mere seconds that kept hundreds of people safe every day.

And here you were. Heart in shambles over a man you’d never even seen in person.

It didn’t make sense. Pilots are arrogant. That’s a universal truth you’d learned over the years in air traffic control. They walked through airports like they owned the sky, had egos the size of their aircraft, an attention span of a goldfish when it came to relationships, and probably a different girlfriend in every city.

Satoru was a pilot. 

Therefore, by the sacred logic of the universe, he was a bad idea.

You’d learned that lesson the hard way—given your heart to people who’d seemed so sure, so persistent, so convinced they wanted forever until they didn’t. Until the reality of loving someone flawed and human became too much work, too complicated, too real.

But now here was him—persistent, charming, relentless in his pursuit of something that existed only in radio waves and imagination. All he had was your voice and whatever fantasy he’d constructed around it. And fantasies, no matter how beautiful, eventually shattered when they met reality.

You didn’t know much about him. Not his favorite movie, or if he was the type to do laundry right away or leave it on a chair for three days. You didn’t know who broke his heart last, or what he looked like when he was nervous. You didn’t even know if he wore glasses or if his hair curled when it rained.

For all you knew, he talked like this to every controller on every route. Maybe you were just one more frequency he’d tuned into. A novelty. A nice voice to pass the time.

Yet you knew he brought you gifts from cities you’d never visited. You knew he worried when you worked too many hours. You knew he talked to his dead sister through postcards and photographs, and somehow let you be a part of that grief. You knew the sound of his breathing thirty thousand feet above you, and sometimes wished you could fall asleep to it.

But this wasn’t real. Whatever this was—chemistry, attraction, some strange radio wave Stockholm syndrome—it couldn’t be real. Real relationships required proximity, shared experiences, mundane Tuesday mornings and arguments over who left the bathroom light on. Not conversations between approach vectors and weather reports in the middle of the night.

He’d never seen you laugh until your sides hurt, never witnessed you cry out of frustration. He didn’t know that you were shy in crowds, that you overthought everything, that you had trust issues wrapped around your heart like scar tissue.

This was in between. A connection built in the air, not on the ground. And you were being smart by saying no. You were being practical. Responsible. You were doing what made sense.

But why did the idea of never knowing the warmth of his hand in yours make your chest ache like you were already grieving something that hadn’t even had the chance to exist?

You rolled onto your side, pulled the covers up higher, and pressed your face into the pillow.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

It was one of those graveyard shifts where the world felt like it had gone still. Most of the world was asleep, save for you, a few stray cargo flights, and the quiet static of Flight 447 holding steady somewhere over the ocean. And him. Always him.

You were back on private frequency. What began, as it always did, with talk of altitudes and airspeed, soon shifted to stories of cities and people he’d met in Dublin and that little bakery he’d found in Budapest, that he’s sure of you’d love.

And then he told you about his ex-girlfriend who’d left him because she couldn’t handle the distance, the loneliness of hotel rooms. He spoke of his parents, who’d always expected him to run the family’s company, and how they still didn’t understand why he’d chosen to spend his life in the sky.

You found yourself sharing more than you probably should, as you always did in these hushed moments—your failed engagement to a man who’d wanted you to quit air traffic control because it was ‘too stressful’, your complicated relationship with your mother, and how sometimes, even now, it still felt like your worth came with conditions.

“I’ve never told anyone that before,” you said softly after confessing how you’d chosen this career partly to prove you could handle something your ex-fiancé thought was too difficult for you.

“I'm glad you told me,” Satoru’s voice was soft through the headset. And despite the exhaustion, your chest gave that familiar, traitorous flutter. “I love listening to your voice, especially when you’re being honest about things that matter.”

“Satoru…” you said, without thinking—his name slipping out in a whisper that carried more weight than it should have.

“Say that again.”

“Your name?”

“Yes,” he breathed, the single word aching. “Please.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn't want to—but because speaking it aloud meant acknowledging the weight it carried.

“Satoru,” you said again, slower this time. His name felt warm on your tongue, like something meant to be spoken softly, like a confession wrapped in a name.

On the other end of the line, silence stretched long enough to make your heart stutter.

“Satoru?” you asked. “Are you there?”

“I’m here. I was just… thinking.”

“About what?”

A beat.

“About how much I want to kiss you right now.”

Your breath caught so fast it hurt. Heat flooded your face and you pulled your headset off for a moment, pressing your palms against your burning cheeks.

You stood for a second, pacing a few slow steps behind your chair, trying to shake it off, to convince yourself you hadn’t heard what you just heard. But your heart wouldn’t stop racing, a wild bird trapped in your ribs, like your body was reacting to something your mind hadn’t even begun to process, let alone given permission for.

Because part of you had desperately wanted to hear those words. And part of you didn’t know what the hell to do with them now that they were real. You stared at the headset in your lap, hesitating. Wanting. Dreading.

After a few seconds, you slipped the headset back on.

“Did I scare you with that?”

“No,” you said quietly. “It’s… it’s fine.”

“I mean it, you know. I really do want to kiss you.”

“This is insane. We’ve never even met.”

“It doesn’t feel that way to me. Feels like I’ve known you forever.”

His words settled deep, heavier than the silence that followed. Something about them felt like a confession hanging between earth and sky, between personal and professional, between safe and what if.

“Satoru…”

“I know how you take your coffee. I know how you sound when you’re tired, and what makes you laugh when you’re trying not to. I know you bite your lip when you’re concentrating—because I can hear it in your voice. And I know you put everyone else ahead of yourself even when you shouldn’t. I know enough to care. And enough to want more.” A pause. “What else do I need to know?”

“What I look like, for starters.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t care?”

“No, because it’s your voice I think about at night. That’s what drew me in. The rest… it never mattered.”

You sat there, heartbeat loud in your ears, not sure how to breathe, let alone how to respond.

“Say something,” he whispered. “Please.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll have coffee with me. Say you’ll give me a chance to see the woman I’ve fallen for.”

Your breath caught again. “Fallen for?” you repeated, like maybe saying it aloud would help you believe it.

“Yes. Completely, hopelessly fallen for.”

Your hands lifted—without thinking, almost desperate—and pressed against the headset like you could pull his voice closer—pull him closer. Part of you wanted him to say it again. Needed to hear it, to make sure it was real. And another part wished he hadn’t said it at all. Because now it was alive between you. Irrevocable.

“I…” You stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I have to—” You panicked and switched back to the main frequency. “Ijichi? Can you take over Flight 447 for me? I need to step out for a second.”

“Everything okay?” Ijichi’s voice sounded concerned.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just need a bathroom break.”

You yanked the headset off and fled to the small restroom down the hall, slammed the lock shut, and leaned back against the door as if afraid his words might follow you in.

You turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto your face. Droplets clung to your lashes and slid down your neck. Still, the heat in your skin wouldn’t go away, chest rising and falling too fast.

What is happening? 

He couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t just… fall for your voice. That wasn’t how this worked. That wasn’t how any of this worked. You hadn’t even met him. You didn’t know what his laugh looked like when it reached his eyes. He didn’t know how you looked when you weren’t exhausted. And yet—

Yet here you were, breathless in a dim airport bathroom in the middle of the night, heart racing like you were the one who’d made the confession.

This is insane. He is a pilot. Probably talks like this to every other control tower from Berlin to Bangkok. But why—God, why—did you want to kiss him back so badly?

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

You took a week off without telling him.

It was cruel—you knew that. But you needed time. Time to breathe. Time to think. Time to stop feeling like you were going to fly apart every time you heard his voice. But distance didn’t feel like space. It felt like ache.

You spent most of that week alone in your apartment, curled into corners of yourself you hadn’t visited in years. You rearranged your bookshelves. Watered your plants twice in one day. Cleaned your windows until they gleamed like they haven’t in years. 

And still, none of it helped. You ended up lying on your back in your bed, just… thinking. Wondering if he was worried. If he noticed the silence. If he regretted saying what he did.

You replayed the conversation endlessly, like a scratched record stuck on the moment his voice had dropped, tender and fragile with something like a confession. 

Completely, hopelessly fallen for. 

You could still hear it. Still feel the way your lungs had stuttered.

You hadn’t meant to fall for him. But you had.

Maybe it started the moment he told you that your voice felt like coming home to him. Or maybe it was the first time he opened up about his sister, the way his voice caught halfway through the sentence, like he was still learning how to hold that grief in his mouth. Or maybe it was even before that, when he brought you chocolate from Zurich and called you special to customs agents he’d never meet again.

You wanted to kiss him then. You want to kiss him now. And that terrified you more than anything. Not because it wasn’t real, but because you’d wanted it to be real for so long without even realizing. But wanting and admitting were two different things. 

So instead, you wrapped yourself in quiet and waited for the ache to fade. It didn’t. You thought it would. You thought time would create space, and space would give you clarity. But it didn’t, and the ache only grew stronger.

By day three, you caught yourself checking the flight tracking apps, wondering if he was flying the skies above you, if his voice was somewhere out there asking another controller for vectors. If he’d call them ‘beautiful’ too.

By day four, you were questioning whether radio silence was mature or just cowardly, and by day five, you were actively pacing your apartment, cursing yourself for disappearing and cursing him for making you feel this way in equal measures.

You heard the familiar drone of an aircraft passing overhead through your open window and stopped your pacing instantly, tilting your head toward the sound as it grew louder, then began to fade.

Was that him? His flight cutting through the darkness with some other controller guiding him home? Someone else’s voice in his headset? The thought made you sick.

Your phone buzzed against the kitchen counter. A text from Maki. “Your pilot boyfriend keeps asking where you are.”

You stared at the message for a long time. Not because you didn’t care, but because you didn’t know what to say. Because how could you possibly say I miss him without it sounding like you were already halfway in love. And maybe you were.

****

You returned on day six. Not because you were ready, or because the questions had answers, or your chest had stopped aching when his name passed through your thoughts, but because Tokyo’s sky was falling apart and there was no more time left to hide.

The call came at 3:42 AM—all available controllers needed immediately. Level four emergency.

You barely had time to pull on your uniform, hair still damp from the shower, as you rushed past stranded passengers sleeping on benches and gate agents with phones pressed to both ears, while overhead an urgent announcement looped in four languages. 

A massive weather front had swept across the Pacific, turning Tokyo’s airspace into chaos. Delayed flights, emergency diversions, aircraft running low on fuel circling in holding patterns, waiting for safe corridors to open. But when you reached your workstation, you stopped.

Flowers. 

A small, beautiful arrangement of white roses and baby’s breath in a clear glass vase.

“He sends them every day,” Maki said, appearing beside you with a stack of weather reports. “Asks if someone can place them on your desk. In case you come back.”

You couldn’t speak, only stared at the petals, watching one tremble in the air conditioning draft. Something fragile inside your chest pulled taut. 

Six days. 

He’d been sending flowers to an empty chair for six days.

“You okay?” Maki asked.

“I’m good,” you managed, swallowing hard. “I need to—” But there was no time. 

“Tower, this is Flight 892, requesting immediate vectors around weather cell bearing 270.”

For the next three hours, there was no room left for feelings. You were too busy handling all the alternate airport requests, fuel emergencies, and missed approaches that required immediate rerouting.

“Flight 315, turn right heading 180, descend to 8,000. Moderate turbulence ahead, advise caution.”

“Flight 726, negative climb, maintain 12,000. Traffic conflict. Standby for alternate routing.”

Every call you answered felt like a life being tossed into your hands. You held on tight. You didn’t shake. At least, not on the outside. 

A sudden, blinding flash from outside momentarily bleached the room, then plunged it back into deeper shadow as rain lashed heavily against the tower’s windows.

And then, between the tangle of signals and storm interference, a call sign you knew like your own name lit up your screen. 

Flight 447.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors through weather, and—” He paused—like he’d caught the shaky breath you hadn’t meant to let slip through. “Control, is that you?”

It shouldn’t have undone you like that. But it did. Your knees went weak under your console. Relief flooded through you at the sound of his voice, alive and safe. Your throat tightened around a dozen things you wanted to say, but there was no time.

“Flight 447, turn left heading 090, descend to 6,000. There’s a gap in the storm cell at your two o’clock.”

“Roger, left 090, down to 6,000.” A beat. “It’s good to hear your voice again.”

You wanted to respond, to explain, to apologize for disappearing like a coward, but four other aircraft were calling for attention at the same time and the storm was intensifying still.

“Flight 447, be advised, severe turbulence ahead. Recommend immediate deviation right, heading 130.”

“Negative, we’re already committed to this approach. We’ll ride it—”

Then nothing. The radio snapped to static, then went silent.

You stood up so fast your chair rolled backward and bumped into the console behind you. One hand clutched the headset tighter to your ear, the other braced against your desk.

“Flight 447, come in.”

No response.

“Satoru, do you copy?”

Still nothing. Only white noise.

Lightning split the sky outside, followed by a deep, rattling roar of thunder that vibrated through the control room. But all you could hear was the terrifying silence where his voice should’ve been.

Your hand trembled as you keyed the mic. “Flight 447, please respond.”

Then, finally, cutting through the noise, “Control. I’m here. Lost comms for a moment there.”

You sank back into your chair like your legs had stopped working, the adrenaline suddenly too much to hold. You rested your forearms on the edge of the console, hands trembling slightly as you leaned in, pressing your forehead against them, trying to steady the frantic beat of your heart against your ribs. 

“What’s with the silence now,” he whispered softly. “Were you worried about me, love?”

Love.

He’d never said that before. Beautiful, gorgeous, honey—but never this. Not like that. Not so soft and tender, like you’d been his love for so long that saying it was simply acknowledging what already existed, what had been waiting patiently in his chest for the right moment to slip free. And never had you been so stupidly, helplessly happy to hear a single word.

He is alive. He is safe. And he’d called you love.

“Flight 447, confirm you’re okay.” 

“We’re fine. Bumpy ride, but nothing we can’t handle.”

Neither of you said anything for a moment.

“I’ve missed you.”

Your throat tightened. Six days of silence. Six days of waiting, wondering, and avoiding the thing you were most afraid to admit. Six days of white roses waiting for your return, and here he was, relieved to hear your voide again like you were something precious he’d thought he’d lost. 

As if your absence had mattered. 

As if he’d missed you the way you’d missed him.

“Thank you,” you said. “For the flowers.”

“You don’t have to thank me. Just… don’t go quiet on me again, okay? It’s hard to feel like I’m coming home when you’re not the one guiding me there.”

You closed your eyes, the ache blooming hot behind your ribs. Coming home. How could he say things like that so easily? How could he make you feel like you were drowning and flying at the same time with just a handful of words spoken through radio static?

And the worst part was how easily he said it—like you really were his home, his anchor point in all that vast sky. Like this thing between you wasn’t just something imagined, but something real enough to miss, something worth coming back to.

“I won’t,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

And you meant it. Whatever had made you run, whatever fear had driven you to take that week off—it felt so stupidly irrelevant compared to the relief of knowing he was safe. Of knowing somewhere above the clouds, he’d been looking for your voice.

“See you on the ground, beautiful.”

And then the line went silent.

Your eyes stayed locked on his radar symbol, unwilling to look away, tracking his descent as if your gaze alone could guide him safely down. Your eyes drifted to the flowers beside your console, your chest tight with guilt because you’d been too much of a coward to face what you felt for him. 

What was holding you back when he was right there? Wanting you, missing you enough to notice your absence, calling you love so tenderly. What was so terrifying about someone who made you feel like the most important voice in his sky?

He missed you. Wanted you. And you missed him like the sky misses his stars in daylight. Now he was descending through storm clouds, almost within reach, and you still didn’t know how to say any of it.

You watched his altitude drop.

8,000 feet. 

6,000.

4,000.

Each number bringing him closer to solid ground—closer to you.

Then another violent gust tore across the runway. A sharp gasp cut through the tower, everyone suddenly stood and looked out the windows as Flight 447 broke through the storm clouds, lurching violently sideways. The plane’s wings tilted at a sickening angle, fighting against the crosswind as it dropped like a stone before catching itself.

Your heart flatlined.

“Maki, can you cover for me?” you asked, voice tight, already moving.

She looked away from the window. “What? Yeah, but—” 

You were gone. Down the tower stairs, past security who barely glanced at your badge, through the restricted access door and straight into the teeth of the storm. Didn’t matter that you were soaking wet or that this was completely against protocol. All you knew was you had to see him.

Rain hit you immediately like ice, instantly soaking through your uniform, but you didn’t slow. Across the runway, Flight 447 was coming in hard. You watched it slam onto the wet asphalt—one heavy bounce, then another, the aircraft struggling to find purchase on the waterlogged asphalt before finally coming to a halt with a loud screech of brakes.

Not a crash. But rough enough to stop your breathing.

You ran faster, shoes splashing through puddles as emergency crews rushed past you toward the plane. The aircraft had stopped crooked on the runway, passenger stairs already being rolled into position as ground crew in bright orange vests hurried around the scene.

 It was stupid, so stupid. You didn’t even know what he looked like. But then—

You saw him. For the first time in your life.

He stepped out of the cockpit door, tall and undeniably handsome even amidst the chaos. His hair was drenched form the rain, plastered back from his forehead, his pilot’s uniform soaked and wrinkled. He was looking around slowly, searching through the crowd with a furrowed brow and eyes the exact impossible blue you’d somehow always known they’d be. And then—

And then his gaze found yours. And everything stopped. No thunder. No wind. No roar of engines or shouts from the crew.

Your eyes met across the storm, and the world fell away. You had never seen this man before, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt like remembering. There was no question, no doubt, no moment of uncertainty—you knew it was him the same way you knew your own heartbeat.

The voice you’d fallen for belonged to this man, this beautiful and insufferable pilot who was staring at you like he’d just found something he’d been searching for his entire life. 

And now he’d found you.

You ran toward him through the chaos, feet splashing through more puddles, rain streaming down your face. He moved toward you too, taking the metal steps down from the plane two at a time, his hand sliding along the wet railing. 

You met in the middle of the runway, both out of breath, both drenched to the bone. Rain clung to his white lashes as he stared at you—those impossible blue eyes you’d imagined a hundred times now real, locked on your face like you were the only thing in the world. And yes, they were just as blue as a winter sky. Up close, he was somehow even more beautiful than you’d let yourself believe.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, suddenly at a complete loss for words. “Would you like to go out with me?” you finally managed, having to raise your voice over the wind and rain.

Satoru blinked, his hair plastered against his forehead. A slow, handsome smile spread across his face.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “I’d really like that.”

And then he was moving, one hand sliding around your waist while the other came up to cradle your face, thumb brushing away raindrops—or maybe tears, you couldn’t tell anymore. He pulled you closer, bridging the last inches like he’d been waiting forever to do it.

When he kissed you, it was like coming home after being lost for years. Desperate and tender, months of longing finally given form. His lips were impossibly soft against yours, warm despite the cold rain, and you could taste the storm on his mouth, feel the way his breath caught when you kissed him back.

Rain poured around you as you finally, finally kissed the voice that had become your everything.

When you broke apart, both breathless, he rested his forehead against yours. His hands trembled slightly where they held you, like he still couldn’t believe this was real.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

Then he was kissing you again, deeper this time, pouring months of missed chances and sleepless nights into the space between your lips. His grip tightened on your waist. Without breaking the kiss, he lifted from the ground and spun once, twice, in the pouring rain like you weighed nothing at all.

Storm clouds churned overhead and emergency crews moved around you, but it felt like you were the only two people in the world—suspended in this perfect moment between earth and sky and the the feeling of finally being found.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

A few weeks later.

“Careful with that,” Satoru warned as you briefly touched a panel of switches, his hand catching your wrist gently. “Unless you want to explain to the airline why we accidentally activated the emergency slides in the hangar.”

You were perched in the captain’s seat of his Boeing 777, legs tucked beneath you as you took in the array of countless instruments, screens, and controls that made up his office thirty thousand feet above the ground. The cockpit was smaller than you’d imagined, more intimate, every surface covered with buttons and displays that somehow made sense to him.

“You actually understand all of this?”

“Each and every switch, gauge, and warning light.” He leaned over you from where he stood beside the captain’s seat, his chest brushing your shoulder as he pointed to different instruments. “See this? It’s the primary flight display—shows our altitude, airspeed, heading. That’s the navigation display, weather radar here…”

You could smell his cologne, feel the warmth of his body as he leaned in closer to point out the next display. You loved watching him like this—the way he lit up when talking about his aircraft, completely absorbed in every detail with that endearing kinda nerdy side of his. But being this close to him made it hard to focus on anything he was saying when all you could think about was the way his voice rumbled low near your ear.

“And this,” he continued, reaching around you to tap a small screen, his arm caging you in against the seat, “shows exactly how beautiful my air traffic controller looks in my chair.”

You turned to find his face inches from yours. His sky blue eyes caught the gentle light like glass, impossibly clear, and for a second, you forgot how to breathe.

“That’s not what that screen shows.”

“No? Then why can’t I look away from it?”

“You’re stupid.” But you were smiling, tilting your head back against the headrest to maintain eye contact. “Show me something else.”

“Demanding little controller.” His fingers trailed along the overhead panel, flipping switches as he spoke. “These control cabin pressure, air conditioning, electrical systems…”

You sank deeper into the chair, letting his soothing voice wash over you.

“These are the autopilot controls.” His hand moved again. “This button engages the system—basically tells the plane to fly itself according to the flight plan we’ve programmed.” His finger moved to another switch. “This one controls altitude hold, and this manages our heading.”

“But here’s the most important thing.” Satoru reached toward a small compartment near the instrument panel and pulled out a photo of the two of you from that stormy night—completely drenched, kissing in the rain. It was blurry as hell and underexposed, and absolutely perfect.

“I still can’t believe Hana managed to get this shot,” you said, taking it from him. “She really thought ‘Oh, what a perfect time for a picture’ while there was literally an emergency evacuation going on.”

Satoru laughed. “But aren’t you gald she took it?”

“We look absolutely stupid.” 

Your hair was plastered to your face, his uniform wrinkled and soaked, but you both looked happy. Really happy.

“You look perfect,” he said, leaning closer. “And you were so cute when you had that total meltdown thinking something happened to me.”

“I did not have a meltdown—”

“You ran across an active runway. In a storm.” He traced the edge of the photo with his finger, smiling. “My professional, composed controller lost her cool because she was worried about her pilot.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m just saying—” He leaned back against the instrument panel, clearly enjoying this. “For someone who spent months pretending to hate my guts, you certainly changed your mind when you thought I might be hurt.”

“I was worried about you.”

His smile softened. “You didn’t have to.” He paused, then reached out, gently cupping your face. “No matter how rough the storm or the landing, I’m never really lost—not when I know you’re there. You always guide me home safely.”

“You’re stupid.”

“Stupidly in love, yeah,” he murmured—and then he kissed you.

What started soft and slow quickly turned heated. You pulled him closer by his tie, and he braced his hand against the seat beside your head, his tongue sliding against yours as his mouth pressed hungrily to yours.

“Controller,” Satoru said between kisses, his voice already rough. “What exactly are you starting here?”

“I’m not starting anything,” you said, even though your fingers were already working his tie loose.

“Clearly.”

You rose from the chair and tugged gently at his loosened tie and he followed without resistance. With a gentle push to his chest, you guided him down into the captain’s seat. He let himself fall back into it, eyes locked on yours. Without a word, you climbed into his lap, straddling him. His hands found your waist immediately, pulling you close as his mouth met yours again like he couldn’t stand another second apart.

“My break’s over in fifteen,” you murmured against his lips. “And the plane’s grounded for another hour. No one should be around.”

He pulled back just enough to give you a look. “Wait… did you check the maintenance schedule before coming here?”

“Maybe.”

“God,” he groaned against your mouth, his hands gliding up your back. “Do you even know what you do to me?”

“I’m just making efficient use of our time, Captain,” you whispered, rolling your hips slightly and feeling him tense beneath you. “Isn’t that what good air traffic control is about? Proper scheduling and all that?”

His laugh came out breathless, strained. “Pretty sure this isn’t in any manual I’ve read.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to improvise.” You threaded your fingers through his white hair and pulled him closer. “You’re good at handling unexpected situations, aren’t you?”

Whatever he was about to say dissolved as he caught your lips again, urgency building in the small space between your bodies. One hand slipped beneath your shirt, warm fingers tracing the curve of your lower back, while the other gripped your thigh possessively.

You started undoing the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers, impatience bleeding into every movement. Fabric slipped from his shoulders as you pushed it off. You pressed your hands against his bare chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your palms and traced slowly down over his abs, earning a rough groan of his against your lips.

“Why do I get the feeling this was your plan all along?” 

Satoru tugged at your shirt, easing it off your shoulders as his lips trailed along your collarbone, then down to the strap of your bra, pushing it aside to press kisses to the skin beneath.

“Says the man undressing me in his cockpit,” you managed, though your voice caught when his mouth found your neck and sucked lightly.

“I can’t believe you let me ramble about navigation systems for ten minutes straight when this was your plan.”

“You’re cute when you’re being all professional and nerdy.”

“You’re terrible.” 

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer until you could feel him hard and pressing through his uniform. A soft sound escaped your lips before you could stop it, and his mouth crashed back onto yours, like he was trying to steal every moan before it left your lips.

“Careful. Don’t want us getting caught, right?”

You barely heard him. Your hands dropped to his belt, leather unfastening fast. It didn’t take long to push aside everything that wasn’t necessary. You were both nothing if not efficient, after all. And the last threads of restraint snapped as Satoru’s hands slid up your bare thighs, fingers hooking beneath your underwear and pulling it aside.

His head tipped back against the seat, breath catching as you moved against him. “Fuck,” he whispered, hands gripping your waist and pulling you closer as you found your rhythm together. His mouth on yours again, swallowing the soft sounds neither of you could hold back.

Surrounded by the controls and countless displays, the cockpit windows slowly fogging from your heated breathing, you couldn’t help but think about how it all started. This was where it began—thirty thousand feet above the world, suspended between earth and sky in the place where his voice had first found yours. From that very first radio call, from the moment he’d called you beautiful, it had always been leading here. 

As if inevitable.

Now, with your hands mapping his skin and your name falling from his lips in soft moans, it felt like coming full circle. From air traffic control to this. From ‘Flight 447’ to ‘Satoru.’ From guiding him home to finally being home.

And that felt pretty damn good.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

Six months later.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to land and take my gorgeous girlfriend out for dinner tonight,” came the voice you loved through your headset, smooth as always despite the late hour.

You rolled your eyes, though you smiled. “Flight 447, you do realize the entire tower can hear you, right?”

“Even better. Let them all know how lucky I am.”

Around the control tower, your colleagues had long since stopped pretending to be annoyed by Satoru’s radio flirtations. Maki still teased you about how cute you both sounded over the frequency, and even Ijichi had gotten used to the intimate banter without blushing like a teenage boy who’d accidentally walked into a lingerie store.

The gifts never stopped coming. From Vilnius, he’d brought a handwritten pierogi recipe from an elderly woman he’d chatted with during his layover—and it was surprisingly good when he made it for you on the weekend. He did not lie when he told you he’s a good cook. 

From Faro came a hand painted pot for the basil plant you’d surely kill again, but it didn’t matter as he’d secretly replace it in the middle of the night so you’d think you’d finally managed to keep a plant alive and see your happy smile. Seville brought oranges he’d handpicked from the city gardens, and Barcelona brought a gorgeous Picasso art book.

And, of course, every trip came with two postcards. One for you, and one for his sister. You’d started framing the ones meant for her and hanging them throughout his apartment for him.

“You know you don’t have to bring me something from every city,” you’d told him after he’d brought more expensive chocolate from Zurich.

“Let me spoil my girl,” he’d replied simply, watching you take a bite. “Besides, all you see is that boring tower all day. You deserve a little treat.”

The radio banter had only gotten worse—or better, depending on your perspective.

“Tower, Flight 447 requesting vectors to your heart.”

“Flight 447 keep it professional or I’m diverting you to Osaka.”

“Oof. Brutal. But if you send me to Osaka, you’ll never see what I brought you from Rome.”

Your colleagues had started keeping a list of his most ridiculous radio calls. ‘Flight 447 requesting visual on the prettiest controller in the hemisphere’ was Maki’s current favorite, while Ijichi still cringed about the time Satoru had asked for ‘Requesting altitude adjustment because I just fell for you—again.’

Yeah. It was absolutely cheesy.

Moving in together happened gradually, then all at once. Your clothes moved to his closet, your coffee mugs replaced all of his ugly ones in the kitchen, and suddenly your shift schedule was magnetted to his refrigerator beside his flight rotations. One day, you realized you were planning your lives around each other without ever having had the conversation.

“Your apartment’s bigger,” you’d pointed out, when you finally made it official.

“Yours has the better balcony. But mine’s closer to the airport.”

“So, your place then. But I’m bringing my good coffee maker.”

“And won’t let me see that adorable little wince you do at my terrible coffee in the morning? You’re heartless.”

But the real adjustment wasn’t space or schedules. It was learning each other’s bodies with the same intensity you’d spent months learning each other’s voices. After all, with falling in love through radio static, there was a lot of missed physical intimacy to make up for.

Some weekends you didn’t even make it out of your shared apartment, too consumed with discovering each other all over again. Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud, sheets warm beneath you as he settled over you, pressing kisses to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone like he couldn’t decide where to focus first.

“I used to fantazise about this,” he murmured between kisses.

“About what?”

“This.” His voice dropped lower, lips bruising your throat. “What you’d sound like when you weren’t trying so hard to be professional… imagining the sounds you’re making now, how you’d moan my name with that pretty voice of yours.”

You pulled him closer, lips finding his again, his tongue hot against yours.

 “Yeah?”

He smiled against your mouth. “You have no idea how many nights I imagined the taste of your skin. How many times I lay awake wondering if your thighs would shake when I fucked you hard enough.”

Your breath stuttered, hands gripping his shoulders like they were the only steady thing left. “Good thing we’ve got time now to find out.”

“Yeah. And I plan on making up for all of it,” he whispered—just before his fingers slipped between your thighs, and you forgot how to speak altogether.

And you did make up for lost time. Learning that he was somehow even more affectionate and thorough in person than over the radio. 

In the quiet of your bedroom, with the curtains drawn and the world hushed beyond the walls, you discovered each other slowly.  

How he always shivered when you traced patterns across his abs. How you had a small scar just below your ribcage from a childhood fall that he found with his lips, kissing along your skin until you arched beneath him. How your body tensed and then melted completely when his mouth worked between your legs, drawing sounds from you that made him groan against your skin.

You learned the weight of his arm draped over you, holding you close when he was moving from behind, and how soothing it felt when his fingers traced lazy patterns on your shoulder until sleep claimed you both. Discovered that lazy morning sex, followed by his surprisingly good scrambled eggs, was the perfect way to start any day.

You spent hours like this, days even, learning the language of each other’s bodies with a thoroughness that left no inch unexplored and no fantasy unfulfilled.

“You know,” he said one evening, pulling you into his lap while you tried to review approach procedures on the couch, “I spent so many nights wondering what it would be like to touch you while you worked.”

“And now?”

“Now I get to find out what happens when I do this—” His lips found that sensitive spot on your neck, making you gasp and completely forget what you’d been reading. “While you’re trying to be all professional.”

“That’s unfair.”

“That’s what makes it fun.”

The night everything changed started like any other. Weather delays had backed up traffic for hours, leaving Satoru circling above the Pacific in a holding pattern while you worked through the endless stream of aircraft. It was past midnight, the tower hushed and dim, when you finally switched to private frequency.

“Bored up there, Captain?”

“Never bored when I’m talking to you. Though I was thinking…”

“Dangerous pastime for you.”

“We’re both stuck here for the next few hours. You, managing this beautiful chaos from your tower. Me, alone with the stars at thirty thousand feet.” His voice carried that familiar warmth that always made something flutter in your chest. “Feels like the perfect date to me.”

You ended up talking for three hours, switching between official vectors and private topics, guiding other aircraft while Satoru described the city lights below and the way clouds shimmered like winter frost in the moonlight.

“Strange how this all started, don’t you think?” you mused during a quiet moment. “Two voices falling for each other over radio frequency.”

“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

“No. It’s just… kind of crazy, isn’t it? All of this.”

He was silent for a beat. When he spoke again, his voice was different—nervous, almost fragile.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Will you marry me?”

Your heart stopped.

“I know it’s not how this is supposed to go. I know it’s not normal. But then again, nothing about us has been. I’m thirty thousand feet in the air, you’re down there keeping the world together, and all I can think about is how much I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Time stretched thin in the control room as you struggled to process what he’d just asked, your heart thundering so loud you were sure he could hear it through the frequency.

“Yes,” you whispered, the word barely more than a breath as you leaned forward, elbows braced against the console. Your hands trembled as you pressed them to your face, overwhelmed by the rush of joy and disbelief.

“Yes?”

“Yes. I’ll marry you.”

He let out a heavy breath. “God, I love you. You just made me the happiest man alive. I swear, if I could pull down every star from up here and give them to you, I would.”

You blinked back tears, smiling. “Just come home safe, you idiot.”

“Always,” he said, and his voice had never sounded more sure. “Your voice guides me home, remember? It always has.”

You thought you’d mapped every corner of him after six months of living together—every habit, every sleepy morning routine, every sound he makes when he cums.

But then came the private jet revelation over scrambled eggs on a random Friday morning.

You’d known he came from money—the expensive gifts, the way he never seemed to stress about finances and had this really fancy apartment—but you hadn’t grasped the scale until he casually mentioned his father’s company owned a fleet of corporate aircraft.

“I was thinking we should take some time off and explore the world a little,” he said, like offering to fly you around the world was the same as suggesting takeout for dinner. “We could take one of the jets.”

“Wait wait wait… you have access to a private jet?”

“Technically, I have access to several.”

Your spoon slipped out of your hand and landed in your eggs.

The first time he took you somewhere—a long weekend in Kyoto for cherry blossom season—you finally understood why he’d fallen in love with flying. 

Up there, suspended between heaven and earth, everything felt different. The world spread out below like a map, cities reduced to scattered lights and rivers threading silver through green landscapes. You watched his hands move over the controls, the same hands that traced gentle patterns on your skin at night, now guiding you both through layers of cloud and sky.

“So this is what you see every day?” you asked, staring out at clouds that looked close enough to touch.

“This is what I used to see.” He glanced over at you. “Now I only see you.”

It started with short weekend trips, then longer stays overseas when both your schedules allowed it. He took you everywhere you wanted to go.

Venice, he bought you both gelato and told you stories about the Murano glass blowers. Barcelona, where you got lost in Gaudi’s wild architecture and found tiny tapas bars nestled in medieval alleyways. And Iceland, where the Northern Lights painted the sky green and purple while you kissed in a natural hot spring—finally experiencing all the places he’d described to you over radio waves. But now you experienced them together.

“Your sister would have loved this,” you said Reykjavik, wrapped in his arms under the dancing aurora.

“She would have loved you,” he replied, pulling you closer in the warm water. “She always said the best adventures were the ones you shared with someone who made you feel at home.”

“Remember when you used to tell me about this place?” you asked one evening in Prague, watching him order those cinnamon sugar spirals from the same bakery he’d told you about months ago over the radio.

He handed you the warm pastry with a smile. “I remember wishing you were here when I first tried it. I used to imagine what you’d say about the cobblestones, or if you’d laugh at my terrible pronunciation when I tried to order something local.”

You took a bite, sugar melting on your tongue. “And now?”

“Now I get to see your face when you taste it for the first time.” He pulled you close, the golden hour painting everything warm around you. “Now I get to hold your hand instead of describing how the sunset looks over the Charles Bridge. I don’t have to imagine anymore.”

Each trip revealed new layers of him—and new ways to make up for all those months of being just voices to each other. 

Somewhere over the Atlantic, you learned just how good he was at multitasking—okay, autopilot might have helped—his hands tangled in your hair, mouth on yours, while the stars streaked past the windows. Long afternoons in Parisian hotel rooms, rain drumming against the windows while you learned exactly how sensitive he gets when overstimulated. Sunset on private beaches in Thailand, where he discovered the sweet sounds you make when he uses three fingers instead of two. 

“I used to get hard just from hearing your voice,” he admitted one night in Santorini, pushing in deep while the Aegean sparkled below your terrace.

“Just from my voice?”

“Especially when you’d get that stern controller tone. ‘Flight 447, maintain current heading.’” His breath caught as you clenched around him, fingers finding yours and intertwining where he pressed them into the mattress. “You have no idea what that did to me.”

“Show me what it did to you.”

He did, thoroughly and repeatedly, until you understood exactly how much he’d wanted you during all those professional exchanges.

The wedding happened a year later, simple and perfect in a garden overlooking Tokyo Bay. Satoru insisted on writing his own vows, and when the moment came, he pulled out a piece of paper that looked suspiciously like a flight plan. 

He promised to pull down the stars for you if you ever wanted them, and you vowed to always be his voice guiding him home.

Years passed like this.

At some point, your story was known by everyone at the airport. Everyone was swooning over the perfect love story of two people who fell in love over their voices alone.

But the best parts were always the quiet moments. Morning coffee in your shared kitchen while he planned routes and you reviewed approach procedures. Afternoons when he’d surprise you at the tower with flowers and terrible jokes that made you ground and your colleagues laugh. Evenings curled up together planning the next adventure, his pilot charts spread across the coffee table next to approach manuals and takeout containers.

“Where to next?”

“Anywhere you want,” was always his answer. “As long as we’re flying together.”

And through it all, some things remained beautifully constant—the flutter in your  stomach when his call sign appeared on your screen, his voice calling from the sky, yours answering from the tower, and the way he still brought you something from every city.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to kiss my beautiful wife once I land. And yes, I know this is a public frequency, and yes—I want everyone to hear it.”

“Flight 447, you’re the worst.”

His laugh crackled through the radio. “I love you,” he said, still completely, hopelessly in love.

And every time he landed, every time you watched his plane touch down safely on the runway, that same warmth bloomed in your chest, just like it had from the very first day. Because no matter how many flights he took, how many cities he visited, how many years passed—he always came back to you.

After all, your voice had been the one calling him home from the very beginning.

The End

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author's note — wait ! before you go ! if you enjoyed this story, i’d be forever grateful if you’d consider gifting me a few minutes of your time to participate in a research survey for my master’s thesis in psychology (if you haven't already) <3

here's the link.

it’s completely anonymous, but just a heads-up: the survey touches on nightmares and emotional wellbeing, so it may be sensitive for some. please feel free to stop at any point if it doesn’t feel right for you.

thank you for flying with insufferable pilot gojo airlines ! please make sure your heart is in the upright position before disembarking. hope this brought you as much joy to read as it brought me to write hehe. somehow i love this idea so much of pilot gojo being completely smitten over a voice alone :')) <3

and sorry that this got unexpectedly horny at the end, my apologies lol. until next time, this is your author signing off. safe travels !

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.

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© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[kakaocho]

Eris, my beloved 🧎‍♀️

I see people redraw that one scene from Blade Runner 2049, but I feel like this kinda works too

[traggalicious]

OH YEAH. eris was a crucial aspect in making me who i am today i think (gay and into mean women)