SYNOPSIS your teeth + iwaizumi's biceps
ft. hajime iwaizumi
haikyu!! mlist
hajime’s biceps are a godsend.
they look like they’ve been handcrafted by god himself, they’re that good.
they’re literally perfection.
pure rock-hard muscle, but not extremely bulky. just really defined muscle, extremely perfect biceps.
when he’s wearing one of those very tight compression shirts (you made him wear them), his biceps bulge out and nearly rip the shirt from how thick the muscle of his upper arm is, the shirt might’ve been a size too small.
it is such a sight to look at. like holy moly.
it’s extremely reasonable that you’re gawking at him 90% of the time, i mean look at the guy.
but he doesn’t really get it.
they’re just biceps, everyone has them. lots of people have defined arms. so why are his so special to you?
but you’ve explained to him, numerous times. that they aren’t just ‘biceps’.
they’re so much more than that.
they are the reason you get up everyday, even if you don’t feel like it. cause then you’ll be able to see his biceps. which gives you more life than air ever could.
iwaizumi’s biceps are your reason to live. they’re amazing, excellent, godlike, wonderful, and everything else.
it’s nearly unable to put into words why his biceps are special.
after your vast explanation, he still doesn’t really understand. but gives you a quick nod and moves on to whatever he was doing previously.
anyways.
you also have this growing urge to bite his biceps, for no reason other than wanting to just try it.
but there never seems to be a good moment to do it, or first and foremost ask him for permission.
until today.
today’s nothing special, just like any other day in thw aoba johsai gym.
everyone’s practicing their skills, the newbies their serves and recieves, kyōtani is practicing his spikes, and with every hit they seem to go even harder than the one before.
oikawa and iwaizumi are bickering as per usual, all while practicing their moves like everyone else.
and you’re standing on the sidelines, holding water bottles and towels if anyone needs them.
iwaizumi had asked you once if you’d like to stay while everyone practiced, and you agreed happily. and now it’s become almost an everyday occurrence.
but you’re only in it to watch him practice, obviously.
watching him tug his sleeves up to his shoulders so his arms are bare, allowing a full view of his unfairly defined arms.
the way his muscles flex everytime he spikes a ball with enough force to break someone’s nose, and the sweat drippling down his skin. making his skin shine under the fluorescent lighting.
it’s all too good of a sight, better than any movie or reel on your phone.
it’s also completely obvious you’re staring. he can see it, and so can everyone else. but they don’t dare to say anything about it, just let you do your thing.
and you’re shameless about it, staring without a singular care in the entire universe, and beyond it.
but with every passing second, his biceps look more biteable. and your urge to bite them gets harder to withhold. you’re aching to get even a lick at them.
and your staring problem is also getting a lot worse, you’re barely even blinking anymore. processing nothing but the mental image of his biceps, since he isn’t in your view anymore— wait. how did that happen?
‘y/n, you okay?’
a slightly gruff voice snaps you out of your hajime iwaizumi’s biceps shaped trance.
‘-huh? oh yeah! i’m good!’ you blurt out, lightly startled by the sudden voice, belonging to no other than your boyfriend.
you hand him a water bottle, figuring that’s what he came to you for. and he accepts it with a smile, your hands brushing when he takes it from you.
you take a look at him again, like your eyes weren’t on him the whole time not even seconds ago. and wow, he looks good.
his chest heaves with every quick breath he takes, trying to slow his breathing down from the intense movement earlier.
he’s sporting the usual practice outfit, turquoise t-shirt, of which the sleeves are rolled up, along with a pair of white shorts with a turquoise streak on the side of them.
his hair’s abit more messy than usual. credits to you for ruffling a hand through his hair earlier in the day.
and he’s sweaty. which really finishes off the look.
skin glistening in the light, droplets of sweat dripping down and trailing on his skin, and his shirt lightly sticking to him from all the sweat.
yes it may be nasty, but god. does he look so good.
he’s sipping from his water bottle, head tilted backwards. eyes glancing towards the court and whatever his teammates are doing.
you can’t resist the incriminating urge to bite him anymore. you have to do it, it’s a necessity to life right now.
‘hajime.’ he finishes drinking his water, wiping the excess water away from his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘yeah?’ his gaze flicks over to you, cocking a brow your way.
‘this is gonna sound so weird.’ you think outloud, suddenly all your previous bravado all washing away when you’re finally faced with what you’ve been wanting to do for ages.
you pause for another thirty seconds, still heavily debating to actually ask him.
‘just spit it out, can’t be that bad.’ he says with a laugh, wondering what absurdity you’re gonna spill out this time.
safe to say he’s gotten used to a bunch of bullshit, having been friends with oikawa since long ago, and having you as his girlfriend.
‘can i—’ you hesitate for another moment, until deciding to just spill it out. the worst he can do is laugh at your face and say no, which he wouldn’t ever do, by the way.
he slowly blinks twice, awaiting your words.
‘can i bite your biceps?’ you finally blurt it out after what felt like hours of tense silence.
his expression changes three times in the span of two seconds, first confusion, then something resembling judgement, and then confusion again.
‘—you want to, what?’
you want to bite his biceps? that’s certainly a first.
‘i want to bite your biceps-‘ you’re thinking maybe he didn’t hear you clearly, repeating your sentence in case of that.
‘no no, i heard you the first time. but, why?’ he’s looking at you like you suddenly turned blue, sheer confusion etched on his features.
‘do i seriously have to explain myself? it’s already embarrassing to ask as is.’ you say with a pout, heat creeping up your cheeks in embarrassment.
‘no. fine— i mean, whatever. just do it.’ he says with a scoff, your embarrassment seeping into him.
‘you mean, right now. right here?’ you didn’t expect him to agree, especially considering your surroundings right now, mostly the people that you’re around.
‘yeah, isn’t that what you want?’ he says bluntly, ‘or do you want a picture of it too?’
‘oh my god, haji. that’s an even better idea!’ you exclaim, and he slaps his face and sighs really loudly, he shouldn’t have said that.
but you look so happy, so he’ll go along with it.
you call over oikawa to let him take the picture, since he’s probably the only one who’d agree to it anyways.
‘now now iwa-chan. didn’t know you were such a sap for your girl—‘ cue iwaizumi harshly slapping oikawa on the back of his head, ‘shut up, shittykawa. just take the damn picture.’ he barks, shoving your phone in oikawa’s hands.
he flexes his arm, bicep completely popping in view. and you nearly drool at the sight.
you stand behind his arm, and chomp down on his arm. making him slightly hiss from how hard you accidentally bit.
oikawa took the picture, multiple actually. both from a close by view and a farther distance, clearly showing iwaizumi’s scowl, although it sort of looks like a smile if you squint hard enough, and your idiotically happy expression.
you remove your mouth from his delicious bicep, and take back your phone.
oikawa’s about to comment something, something dumb and probably sappy. so iwaizumi sends him his nasiest glare, making the setter walk away like a deflated balloon.
you’re giggling as you scroll through the pictures, ‘you happy now?’ iwaizumi asks, ‘yes, very! thank you babe.’ you smile brightly at him and give him a peck on his lips.
‘good, i’ll be going back to practice then.’ now he’s the one giving you a kiss, a proper one at that.
you wave him off and turn your attention back to your phone, selecting the perfect picture to post on your socials.
captioned, y/n: my favorite snack ;) [tagged: hajime.iwaizumi]
god it is such a blessing to have a ripped boyfriend, and one who lets you bite his biceps.
a/n: hi yes i love hajime iwaizumi (and his biceps), ok i needed to write this since this one iwa edit has taken over my life, most unoriginal title ever but yay
;; boyfriend!iwaizumi is the type to never let you walk on the street-side of the sidewalk, but he doesn’t do it with some dramatic, sweeping gesture. he just quietly palms your waist, his thumb digging slightly into your hip through your shirt, and nudges you to the inside without breaking the flow of whatever story he’s telling you about his athletes.
;; boyfriend!iwaizumi has hands that are always a little rough, calloused from years of gripping volleyballs and athletic tape, but he’s absurdly gentle when it comes to you. his favorite thing to do when you’re both unwinding on the couch is to drag the blunt tips of his fingers down the nape of your neck, tracing the edge of your collarbone until you’re practically melting into his chest.
;; boyfriend!iwaizumi looks terrifyingly hot when he’s focused, especially now that he’s older, broader, and wears those fitted athletic polos for work. if you’re studying or working next to him, he’ll be staring intensely at his laptop screen, jaw tight, until he catches you looking. the way his expression immediately softens into this heavy-lidded, knowing smirk will absolutely ruin your ability to concentrate.
;; boyfriend!iwaizumi isn’t a loud PDA person, but his possessiveness shows up in the quietest, highest-voltage ways. like how his hand always finds its way under your thigh when he’s driving, his fingers idly squeezing your skin right above your knee, or how he’ll pull you against him by your waistband in crowded spaces, his chin resting right on top of your head.
;; boyfriend!iwaizumi is incredibly observant. he knows the exact temperature you like the shower, exactly how much milk to put in your morning coffee so it’s just the right shade of beige, and the precise moment your social battery dips. before you even have to say you want to leave a party, you’ll feel his large, warm hand slide down your spine, his lips brushing your ear as he mumbles, “let’s get you home, ‘kay?”
;; boyfriend!iwaizumi has a terrible habit of leaving his heavy, oversized hoodies at your place, and he fully expects you to wear them. but the real kicker is when you try to give them back, and he just pulls you into his lap, buries his face in the crook of your neck, and mutters that they smell way better on you anyway, his grip tightening around your waist so you can’t get up.
;; boyfriend!iwaizumi is a teasing menace behind closed doors. he loves to push your buttons just to feel the flush creep up your neck. if you’re complaining about him being too distracting, he’ll just lean over you, trapping you against the kitchen counter with his forearms on either side of your hips, looking down at you with that lazy, confident gaze that says he knows exactly what he does to you.
;; boyfriend!iwaizumi is your absolute biggest safe space. after a grueling day, there is nothing better than crawling into his bed and having him immediately haul you against his chest. he’ll wrap his thick arms and legs around you like a human weighted blanket, pressing slow, lingering kisses to the top of your head until all your stress completely evaporates.
;; boyfriend!iwaizumi is so deceptively solid, and he knows exactly how much he outweighs you. when he’s feeling particularly impatient, he loves to casually hook a thick arm around your neck from behind, pulling your back flush against his broad chest in a lazy, dominant headlock. he’ll just hold you trapped there, his heavy bicep pressing right against your chin, flexing effortlessly every time you try to squirm away while he mumbles something entirely too hot in your ear.
;; boyfriend!iwaizumi does this thing where he doesn’t ask you to move—he just moves you. if you’re in his way or if he just wants you closer, he’ll wrap his massive hands around your waist and physically lift your feet off the ground to set you exactly where he wants you. that casual, effortless manhandling is dangerous, especially when he deposits you right onto his lap or strands you on top of the kitchen counter so you’re at perfect eye level.
;; boyfriend!iwaizumi has an absolute vice grip, a lovely byproduct of his years as a heavy-hitting wing spiker and trainer. when things get heated behind closed doors, he likes to pin both of your wrists above your head with just one of his hands. his fingers wrap completely around your bones, locking you down so easily that it makes your head spin. he’ll just look down at you, using his free hand to trace a line down your stomach, completely unbothered by how much you’re trembling underneath him.
;; boyfriend!iwaizumi’s thighs and biceps are genuinely a public health hazard. he’s completely unbothered by using his weight to pin you to the mattress, straddling your hips so you can feel every single muscle in his legs locking you in place. if you try to push him off, your hands just end up gripping his tensed, solid biceps, which only makes him huff a dark, quiet laugh before he leans down to bite at your collarbone.
;; boyfriend!iwaizumi gets incredibly needy in the dirtiest way after a long week of training. he won’t even wait for you to get to the bedroom; he’ll just crowd you against the nearest wall, his heavy thigh sliding right between yours to press up against you, making your breath hitch. he likes to slide his rough hands under your shirt, his calloused palms dragging harshly over your bare skin as he commands you to look at him while he ruins your makeup.
;; boyfriend!iwaizumi loves the contrast of his rough, athletic hands against your soft skin, and he isn’t gentle about leaving his mark. he’ll wrap his hand firmly around the back of your neck, his thumb pressing into your jawline to force your mouth open for him. the way he handles you is so heavy and deliberate—he likes to leave deep, dark bruises right where your neck meets your shoulder, anchoring you to him while he takes his time pulling the most embarrassing, breathless noises out of you.
;; boyfriend!iwaizumi is entirely too strong for his own good, and when he completely loses his patience with you, he shows you exactly how effortless it is for him to keep you right where he wants you. he’ll pull you onto his lap facing away from him, or crowd you from behind against the mattress, and lazily hook one thick, heavy bicep under your chin to lock your head back against his shoulder—keeping you completely pinned while he drives into you from behind.
;; boyfriend!iwaizumi loves the view it gives him. with his arm locked securely around your neck, he can force your head back just enough to look down at your face, watching your eyes roll back and your mouth part as he hits every single spot. every time he drives home, his bicep flexes hard against your throat and collarbone, smothermuffling your breathless, high-pitched whines right into the crook of his neck while his other hand grips your hip so hard he’s going to leave bruises shaped like his fingers.
;; boyfriend!iwaizumi uses his athletic weight to completely overwhelm you. you’re trapped between his solid chest pressing into your spine and the unyielding restraint of his arm holding your head steady, making it impossible to escape the relentless, heavy rhythm he’s setting. when you try to arch away from the friction, he just tightens the headlock a fraction more, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly command right against your ear: “don’t move, just take it. you’ll be good for me, won’t you?”
;; boyfriend!iwaizumi gets so dirty when he realizes how much his strength turns you on. he’ll intentionally tense his forearm right against your neck as he plows into you, letting you feel the full, hard ridge of his muscle cutting off your ability to do anything but swallow the moans of his name. by the time he finally lets you go, your head drops heavily to the pillows, completely spent and dazed from the sheer, breathless weight of how thoroughly he just took you apart.
n: i’m at an all you can eat asian restaurant, mmm
student athlete!oikawa x study goat!reader hate each other
warnings. angsty. tw: insecurity + general cruelty. minors DNI.
content. 700 wc | angsty to smut pay-off | bullying | mean guy doesn't realize you're hot trope | tw: insecurity + general cruelty | shy!reader | nerd!reader | student athlete!oikawa | oikawa is super vain + immature | reveal to come, stay tuned + reply to be tagged for next part
Ი𐑼 pre-note. dropping this little thought experiment to test waters. can't decide if reader will be a subbyish or mommyish in the end yet.. ,maybeee drop a recommendation if u feel some way ab it?
Your heart plummets into your stomach as the lab pairings are listed out for the semester.
"Oh my god..." Oikawa groans under his breath as he yanks the stool out next to you. It's laughably loud as it clatters against the hard tile.
Out of maybe 30 or 40 students in this classroom, would have to sit on that metal stool next to you for two hours every Tuesday and Thursday- as you both struggle to complete a worksheet by the end of class time. And -even better- if you couldn't, you got the privilege of coming back to the lab after 5 p.m to finish it.
You flinch, and he notices, but doesn't care enough to soften for you.
As he settles in, seat creaking, still muttering -despite the teacher telling him to be quiet-, you pull at the collar of your spring sweater. Your neck is hot and you turn inwards, as you feel his sharp gaze under those heavy, resentful eyelids.
It's not new, but it never gets easier.
What concerns you most, at present, is why faculty seems to always assert themselves the wrong way in student social dynamics. Much like jamming a triangular peg into a square hole, sometimes the best thing to do is separate students like you and Tohru, not bring you closer together.
You give a hard, but unnoticed stare to Dr. Yamada during the rest of the lecture. It's your best bet to ensure you don't look at the meathead next to you; you don't want to encourage any further drama.
-
He is an idiot, that much is for sure.
"Name?" He asserts, scribbling his own -only first- name onto the worksheet. You blink. The whole thing is supposed to be done in black pen.
He snaps, "Dude."
He tosses the pencil back down and runs his palms down the sides of his face, as if the second it took you to answer has cost him a year of his life.
Before you can even take a breath to speak, his friend in a similar athletic t-shirt recognizes his voice across the work station. A dark-haired volleyball player ducks under the cabinets.
"Yo! Tohru!!"
"Iwa!"
They share a loud handshake as you slide the sheet to your side.
He's only vaguely quiet as he snips, "Can you believe this shit?"
To add insult to injury, not even a whisper would've gone unheard at this distance.
"Yeahh...Well, what can ya do, y'know?"
Iwa is quieter, but the one-two lands a lot harder when you can't chalk it up to a singular person's bad manners and flawed sense of self worth.
You silently complete the entire first-day assignment yourself. It isn't difficult. It's not meant to be. The time was supposed to be spent getting to know each other.
You even erase his poorly-written name to rewrite yours, then his, full name in proper ink. He discusses their last game with his buddy, only stopping for a Clash of Clans breaks on his phone when Iwa helps his partner out.
Dr. Yamada grades your sheet in front of you; quite possibly the singular good thing about this class. You, and Oikawa, get a big, red 100.
You pause, though, as Oikawa shuffles out of the classroom, sporting mild but fleeting approval at the score. It quickly melts off of his brow once he's gone.
You start: "Sir, I really need to switch partners--"
He spouts off the exact script he's given three or so pairs of students before you:
"Nooo changes to the roster, (L/n). I said it at the beginning of lecture."
"I-I know, I know sir-,"
"Then you know that a partner change is not possible and I won't be entertaining it for any pairs."
You sigh, clutching your paper -yours-, "Sir, he's not gonna do any of this work. I'll be doing all of it, alone. All semester."
Once again, you're met with a brick wall, repeating the same lines to every student, regardless of the reason that they need an exception.
"You'll have an opportunity for peer rating at midterms, and again at finals. I will adjust grade-weight based on those ratings," He looks beyond you, at a handful of students waiting for you to leave, "Next in line."
You shift out of the way, but linger, and watch him grade part of the next paper. You listen to the pairs of girls chatting about nice things, getting to know each other, getting along-- then grip your bag tight and finally leave.
links. my masterlist. more haikyuu. my inbox.
taglist. @thisiswhereishitpostalot @megapteraurelia @integers @babybird-meena
Ი𐑼 post-note. wrote this a lil tipsy, forgive me for errors
gav-san , since you ended the Sanji CJ, there is still one thing you have to tell me/us. How is Sanji feeling now that he found out that His soulmate actually imagined him in a lace corset, would he do it or not.
Ok fine.
Sanji stopped in his tracks, eyes fixed on the little magazine display outside a shop. The cover was adorned with satin ribbons and lace, delicate corsets folded into elaborate shapes. His cigarette nearly slipped from his lips.
The dream. That ridiculous, intoxicating dream from years ago, when your thoughts had tangled with his in sleep and you had whispered an image of him he would never forget. The entire reason he had been too humiliated to speak to you for years.
He didn’t feel that way anymore.
Slowly, a grin curled over his face. He tapped the ash from his cigarette, his mind already reaching for you.
“You know, sweetheart,” his voice slid into your thoughts like silk, playful and deliberate, “I just walked past something that reminded me of you.”
You blinked, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Corsets,” he answered, dragging out the word until you felt the smirk behind it. “Black lace, satin bows. Ring any bells?”
Heat shot up your face. You had forgotten about that night, or at least you thought you had. He had not.
“You still remember that?” you hissed through the bond, hoping your panic did not bleed through.
His laughter came warm and wicked. “Oh, ma chérie, how could I possibly forget? My soulmate imagining me trussed up in lace? That is not the sort of thing a man lets go of.”
You tried to cut the connection, but his voice followed, teasing and relentless.
“The way I see it, you owe me,” he continued smoothly. “You planted the fantasy, now you have to see it through. One day, you will sit there and watch me put it on. And you will play along. That is the price.”
You groaned aloud, covering your face with your hands. “You’re impossible.”
“Non,” Sanji purred, clearly pleased with himself. “I am unforgettable. And I look damn good in lace.”
There wasn’t much privacy aboard the Sunny. But with the log pose resetting, and the crew gone for the day, there wasn’t a chance in hell he was letting it go.
-X-
You did not think much of Sanji’s tease until hours later, when he returned to the Sunny with a bag tucked discreetly under his arm and a smile he could not hide. He did not even cook right away. That was your first warning.
You were halfway down the gangplank for some chore when Sanji’s hand closed gently around your wrist.
“Stay,” he murmured, blue eyes gleaming in the low light. “I want to show you something.”
Something in his tone made your stomach flip. Against better judgment, you let him draw you back on board. The deck was quiet, lanterns dimmed. He guided you toward the galley, and then past it, straight into his quarters.
When the door shut, he turned, the little paper bag set neatly on the table. He took his time unfolding it, as if savoring every second of your unease. The lace glinted in his hands when he finally pulled it free, black satin ribbons sliding like ink between his fingers.
Your breath caught. “Sanji… what is that?”
His grin widened. “You already know. You pictured me in it once. I thought it was only fair that we make your little fantasy real. This is yours.”
You covered your face, groaning into your palms. “You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, I am very serious,” he replied, voice low and coaxing. He stepped closer, the corset dangling from his fingertips, teasing you with it. “You owe me, remember? Now you get to play along. Sit there and watch, just like you imagined.”
He moved with deliberate grace, shrugging out of his shirt, bare shoulders catching the lantern glow. Then the lace, tugged tight, ribbons reveled beneath with careful fingers. The absurdity of it almost made you laugh, but the sight of him, proud and devastating even in something meant to tease, silenced you.
Sanji leaned in, one hand braced on the wall beside you, the other still adjusting the ribbon at his waist. His smile was pure sin. “So, my love, do I meet your expectations? Or shall I give you a better show?”
Not that you ever could disagree when he gave you that sparkling half-smile, but you soon found yourself laced and perfumed.
The lanternlight cast a warm glow across his quarters. Sanji lay back on the mattress, golden hair spilled over the pillow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. The black lace clung to his frame in ribbons and satin, absurd and perfect all at once. He had tied it himself with the precision of a man who lived for detail, every bow neat, every ribbon snug.
You stood frozen at the foot of the bed, half dressed in the matching set he had pressed into your hands minutes earlier. The corset hugged your ribs, silk brushing bare skin. You had thought it would feel humiliating, but under the weight of his gaze it felt dangerous instead.
“Come here,” Sanji coaxed, his voice low and coaxing, smoke-roughened with want. “Do not make me beg, mon amour. Tonight you play along.”
Your legs carried you forward before your mind caught up. He reached for you, drawing you down over him until you straddled his hips. Satin tangled with satin, lace brushing against lace, the faint rustle of fabric mixing with the sharp drag of breath.
Sanji’s eyes half-lidded, but the smile never faded. His hands trailed your waist, tracing the edge of the corset as though committing every stitch to memory. “Look at us,” he whispered, voice breaking with wonder and mischief both. “A matched set. Ribbons and all.”
You pressed your palms to his chest, meaning to steady yourself, but he caught one hand and laced your fingers with his, guiding it up to the bow knotted just below his collarbone. “Untie me slowly,” he murmured. “Make me yours. That is what you wanted, was it not?”
Heat roared in your cheeks. You shook your head, trying to deny it, but the bond betrayed you, throbbing with a tide of want that mirrored his. His laugh was soft, triumphant.
“You imagined me beneath you once,” Sanji said, pulling you closer until your lips hovered over his. “Now I will give you the real thing. Take your time, mon trésor. I am yours to unwrap.”
And that was when blood spewed from your nose.
It happened so fast you hardly registered it. One moment you were leaning over him, lips hovering, the next a warm gush slipped past your nose and splattered across the lace at his chest.
“Mon dieu—!” Sanji yelped, eyes going wide as he caught sight of the crimson stain spreading over delicate black satin. “Love, are you—what in the seven hells—?”
Mortification swallowed you whole. You clapped your hands over your face, voice muffled and frantic. “It is not what it looks like! I just—your—lace—”
Sanji froze, then the corner of his mouth twitched. He tried to stifle it, truly he did, but the laugh escaped anyway, rough and bubbling like champagne. His chest shook beneath you as he dissolved into helpless laughter, bloodstained lace and all.
“You—” he gasped between fits, “you actually had a nosebleed. Over me. In ribbons.” His hand came up, gently prying your own from your face so he could see the damage for himself. “Mon trésor, you could have killed me with worry, but instead—ah, you are too much.”
You wanted the floorboards to split open and swallow you whole. “Do not ever speak of this again.”
“Never,” he promised immediately, still grinning like a devil. He reached for a napkin from his bedside drawer, dabbing delicately at your face, then at his corset, as if the whole thing were the most natural disaster in the world. “But only because I am keeping it in my heart forever.”
You groaned, burying your face against his shoulder, ignoring the silk and lace and the way his laughter still trembled through him. “I will end myself.”
His arms wrapped around you, warm and sure, even as he chuckled into your hair. “Non, my love. It is merely proof you adore me.”
𑣲 summary: recently, bakugo has been walking around with a hair tie on his wrist.
𑣲 pairing: bakugo x longhaired!reader (both are U.A students)
𑣲 wc: 2.2k | 𑣲 tags: fluff, established rs
You've never noticed it until Sero points it out one day during lunch. Lunch Rush cafeteria is bustling with students from all grades and you're sitting next to Bakugo as usual, taking small bites of your food. Bakugo, on the other hand, chows down mouthful after mouthful of his spicy ramen without any care or regard for the spice burning on his tongue.
"Why did you start walking around with a hair tie?" Sero asks, staring suspiciously at the simple piece of rubber around Bakugo's wrist. You sneak a glance, finally noticing the subject of interest which happens to be in your favourite colour. Bakugo inhales the reminder of his ramen broth and slams the empty bowl down onto the table that rattles with a silent burp, wiping his mouth with a piece of tissue. The others are too used to Bakugo's violent ways and continue eating their lunch, unfazed.
"It's my bracelet." Bakugo mutters before looking at your plate which you are still halfway through. "Tch, you're so slow."
"You're too fast." You retort back without blinking.
"Ooh, get him Y/N." Kaminari cheers with a wolfish grin before he squeaks as Bakugo's glare darts towards him. Kirishima snickers, popping his spoon into his mouth and largely unaffected by Bakugo's fiery glare.
"A bracelet?" Sero muses, frowning so deeply his eyebrows might fall off. "But why a hair tie of all things? It's not like you need it for your hair anyway."
"Why can't I?" Bakugo retorts sharply before he huffs, propping his head up on one arm as he watches you eat. "Quit askin' useless questions."
Sero rolls his eyes and drops the topic since he isn't going to get anywhere with Bakugo's stubbornness. The conversation shifts towards the training session the class has after lunch. While the other three boys talk among themselves, Bakugo's entire focus is fixed on you instead.
"You're staring." You mutter, tapping on your food idly with your fork.
"You're not eating." Bakugo mutters back, his entire body turned away from his friends as he stares you down.
"Yea, well, I'm not that hungry." You let out a quiet sigh, turning your head slightly to meet eyes with Bakugo. "After a certain someone dragged me all over the place to have an extremely heavy breakfast, it's only normal that I'm not that hungry now."
"The breakfast was good." Bakugo mumbles, suddenly lost in his thoughts before he groans. "I want to eat it again. Let's go again tomorrow morning."
"Huh?" You squint at Bakugo before shaking your head furiously, reminded of how Bakugo pulled you out of bed at an ungodly hour just so you could accompany him for breakfast. You've never swore at anyone so fiercely before in your life but you still ended up tagging along because it's Katsuki Bakugo. "Nuh uh, I don't want to wake up before dawn just so we can go out of campus for that breakfast."
Bakugo sulks before he pulls out the puppy eyes, the ones that you're ridiculously weak to and the one you can never say no to. You stiffen in your seat, plunging your fork into your food as you pull away from Bakugo, but the blonde haired only leans in towards you, tugging on the hem of your sleeve. "Breakfast tomorrow."
"At least say please." You grumble, planting a hand on Bakugo's face in an attempt to shove him away. Even with his face partially covered by your hand, you can sense the smugness overflowing from Bakugo's being.
Bakugo just grins, puppy eyes effect intensifying to a ridiculous degree and you end up groaning. "Fine."
Bakugo leans back in his seat triumphantly, smirking at you, and you hate that you love him too much to turn him down. Muttering angrily under your breath, you lean forward slightly to take another small bite of your food when you hair falls off your shoulders, nearly touching your food. You huff, exasperated, and you're about to push your hair over your shoulders but you don't get very far when you spot Bakugo with that hair tie now in between his lips.
You can barely react while Bakugo is already moving, eyebrows pinched into a slight frown of utmost concentration. He gathers the loose strands of your hair together, combing it with his fingers briefly and smoothing out some knots before he takes the hair tie from his mouth and loops it your hair through twice. Your hair is now secured into a low and messy ponytail. It's far from perfect but you can't even nitpick at it as you sit frozen in your spot from what Bakugo just did.
Bakugo goes back to propping his head up on one hand, staring at you with the faintest smirk dancing on his lips. He looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to speak, but you're too stunned by Bakugo tying your hair with that hair tie to even open your mouth.
"Did you—" You pause, trying to comprehend whatever just happened as you raise a hand, touching your new ponytail lightly. "Did you just tie my hair?"
"Yea." Bakugo replies nonchalantly though he continues to look at you as if he's expecting something from you. "Your hair keeps getting in your way. Maybe you should go bald instead."
Normally you would retort with a harmless insult of your own but you're still too stunned to really retort. The realisation finally hits you in full force like you're being slammed against a brick wall about why Bakugo started walking around with a hair tie, in your favourite colour, around his wrist that he claims to be his 'bracelet'—it's so he can tie your hair up for you whenever it gets in your way.
Your gaze softens as you touch the hair tie holding your hair together. Bakugo missed a couple of stray strands when gathering your hair together but you're still touched by his effort regardless. "Thanks." You murmur, looking up at him with a small smile.
"You're welcome." Bakugo replies, his smile widening.
"Get a room." Kirishima calls out from the other side of the table. Bakugo's demeanour flips 180 as he starts barking at Kirishima immediately, the smallest explosions popping on his palms.
⋆˚౨ৎ ⋆.˚
You emerge from your bathroom with a towel around your neck and heavy sigh, muscles sore and strained after the most intense training yet. Bakugo is lounging in your dorm room, unceremoniously taking up the entirety of your bed as he scrolls on his phone. Compared to you whose body is aching like an old man's, Bakugo is perfectly fine and unaffected by the harshness of training. Textbooks and exercise books lay scattered on your table, reminding you of the homework Bakugo wants to do together even if it isn't due tomorrow.
"Took you long enough." Bakugo utters as his gaze flits towards the clock on your nightstand. "I was going to fall asleep on your bed if you took another second longer."
"I didn't even take that long in the shower." You mutter as you plop onto your bed beside Bakugo, pulling the towel over your damp hair. You start massaging your scalp, trying to dry your hair, but your muscles are screaming and the towel is too heavy and you give up with another exhausted sigh.
Bakugo notices as he raises an eyebrow, tossing his phone to one side. "Not going to dry your hair?" He asks as you shake your head, eyelids already threatening to close against your own will.
"Too tired." You mumble, leaving the towel draped over your head. "I'll just let it dry naturally."
"Tch." Bakugo makes a sound of annoyance as he pulls himself off the bed and settles behind you. He grabs your towel and starts massaging your scalp through the fabric. It's heavenly, the way Bakugo works half of his strength into his fingers and spreading his attention evenly over your scalp. Your body gradually leans back towards him and Bakugo pauses as he snakes an arm around your wrist and pulls you into his lap, letting you rest against his chest. He starts again and you squeeze your eyes shut, revelling into the sensation of Bakugo's massage as you drift closer and closer towards dreamland.
"It's still not dry." Bakugo mutters as he touches the ends of your long hair gently, the lovely scent of your shampoo wafting into his nose.
"It'll dry eventually." You mumble. Bakugo's chest rises and falls with each breath he takes and you ride the motion, your body completely slack on his lap.
"You can't sleep with wet hair." Bakugo snorts.
"I wasn't going to sleep." You peek one eye open before pointing at the pile of homework left abandoned on the table. "You said you wanted to do the homework that's due on Friday."
"You're not going to answer a single question correctly in this state." Bakugo pokes your cheek with a finger and a huff. "Where's your hairdryer?"
You crawl off Bakugo's lap and start digging through your drawers, eventually pulling out the appliance which you plug into a nearby socket. You're about to start drying your hair with the hairdryer when Bakugo takes the appliance from your hand instead.
"Sit." Bakugo says, gesturing at your bed, and you do so without a shred of complaint and your back facing Bakugo, crossing your legs. "Tell me if it's too hot."
You hum. The appliance whirrs to life and Bakugo starts weaving his fingers through your hair, tugging at the knots lightly. Bakugo is awfully patient and gentle with your hair, two words that aren't usually associated with Katsuki Bakugo in any way and your heart grows fuzzy with warmth. Your eyes slowly drift shut, the exhaustion overwhelming you immediately as you let Bakugo dry your hair.
The hair dryer falls silent as Bakugo turns it off and puts it to one side. You soon feel the bristles of your hair brush scratching against your scalp before it is pulled downwards in rhythmic motions as Bakugo brushes your hair without being asked to do so. You nod off, unable to keep your head straight anymore before Bakugo's palm slides underneath your chin, gently nudging your head upwards.
"Just a little bit more." Bakugo murmurs behind you. "Stay awake."
"Mhmm." You hum sleepily as Bakugo starts brushing your hair again. Finally, after what seems like forever, Bakugo puts your hairbrush to one side and taps your shoulder silently. You collapse onto your bed immediately, crawling towards your pillow and planting your face onto it. The relief is immense and you would have dozed off immediately if not for Bakugo bustling around in your dorm room.
You peek one bleary eye open, watching as Bakugo keeps all of your things—the hair dryer, the abandoned homework, even your crumped blazer that he hangs up on the back of your dorm room door. He finally turns around and spots you staring at him while sprawled out on your bed.
"You'd make a good husband." You blurt out, the fatigue burrowing in your brain.
"Yea?" Bakugo raises an eyebrow at you, unable to hide the smug grin growing on his lips as he flicks the light switch and ambles towards you, slipping into your bed beside you. "Wanna marry me?"
"Yea." You mumble, automatically snuggling into his embrace as he wraps both arms around you. You sigh, content with his presence and soothed by his natural body heat. He burrows his face into your hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. Your dorm room is shrouded in darkness, weak shimmers of moonlight flickering through the dense clouds that cloak the velvet night sky but you've never felt safer in Bakugo's arms.
"We're married now then." Bakugo mumbles.
"Yay." You mumble back before you stiffen and pinch his cheek. Bakugo huffs. "Did you brush your teeth?"
"Yea, duh" Bakugo grabs your hand and pulls it away, squinting down at you.
"When?" You challenge, squinting back at him.
"When you were taking forever in the shower." Bakugo rolls his eyes, offended that you would doubt him on the topic of oral hygiene.
"If you're lying then we're getting a divorce." You threaten harmlessly before you plant your face into his chest.
"Not happening." Bakugo mutters as he pulls you closer towards him, hot breath fanning your cheek. "We're staying married. And ten years later, I'll marry you for real."
Your heart skips a beat as you tighten your fingers around his tee shirt, suddenly wide awake. "I want a 17 carat diamond ring."
"Mhmm." Bakugo agrees readily, not even batting an eyelid to your delusional fantasy. "Anything you want, sweets."
Little tears prick at the corner of your eyes as you inhale shakily. "I love you, Kats."
"I know." Bakugo replies nonchalantly and you slap him lightly on the arm, peeved that he doesn't respond to your declaration of love. Bakugo snickers softly before putting a hand on your head, touching your hair. "I love you too. Now sleep. We have a breakfast to grab at 6AM tomorrow morning."
You roll your eyes, already tired at the thought of waking up early just so Bakugo can grab that breakfast he really wants. But with how Bakugo showers you with love and affection through the simplest acts of service, it doesn't seem that bad to wake up early for him after all.
❥you & bakugo won’t say you’re dating, but there will be signs
BAKUSQUAD CASE FILES — CASE STUDY #1.
observed by — mina ashido
“y/n says she and bakugo aren’t dating. but i swear i caught them playing footsies during study hall.”
⟡
mina assumes it’s a trick of the light.
sero’s stalking hot moms on facebook. denki & kiri are trying to start a fire with a comically large magnifying glass. & when mina sees bakugo tickle your ankle with the toe of his sock, mina’s quick to assume the sight’s caused by the refractive index of light through the magnifying glass or whatever mumbo-jumbo they learned during last tuesday’s physics class.
but it happens again.
and this time you giggle.
and so mina has no choice but to accept magnifying glasses cannot bend sound.
mina puts on sero’s eyeglasses. they’re purely decorative, but she feels more intuitive regardless. she buries her nose between CGP’s A-Level biology guide & pretends she isn’t observing the way your eyes glint anytime you manage to nick katsuki in the shins.
bakugo’s face is stone still.
to the untrained eye, he’s simply solving calculus questions a mile a minute. but then he grunts.
mina doesn’t miss the way he grins when he nabs you in the thigh.
BAKUSQUAD CASE FILES — CASE STUDY #2.
observed by — sero hanta
‘bakugo swears y/n isn’t anyone special to him. so why the hell does he have her contact saved as ‘mine?’
⟡
the first time sero hanta ever decides to show up early, he’s stuck waiting at a theatre with an angry bakugo at his side.
not to say the fiery blond isn’t usually angry. but this time said anger comes with heat: he’s grinding straw between his molars so hard plastic cracks between his teeth. his feet tap like it’ll make time go by sooner. it doesn’t.
“i’m gonna kill that damn shitty hair.”
“we’re the ones who’re thirty minutes early.”
“shut the fuck up.”
dumb dog sero hanta does as he’s told. katsuki stews a little longer, neck rash red, phone clicking locked & unlocked till he decides he’s had enough—or till the anger reaches his bladder. “‘m going to the bathroom, watch my shit.”
katsuki doesn’t bother waiting for a reply. his hands shove in his pockets as he makes his way to the bathroom, phone tucked firm between sero’s palms. sero hanta knows better than to hold it with anything less than an iron grip. but then it buzzes—& almost cartoonishly, the phone hops & skips before settling between his fingers
sero sees the notification before he can pretend otherwise.
mine🫀: mina and i are otw
mine🫀 : hope we’ll make it. this girl can NOT drive.
sero muffles a snort. the text holds truth, mina cannot, in fact drive. he recalls the time she picked him up to go to the beach and—wait.
is that text from y/n?
he’s quick to take a picture, send it to the ‘inBESTigators 🕵️🔍’ GC. before he can even close his phone & resume playing saint, kiri’s response comes in.
ripped riot 🔥: could be a typo
ripped riot 🔥: like ‘mine’ could be short for miner
pikachu ⚡️[replying to ripped riot 🔥] : are we deadass
sero’s about to type a response of his own before the familiar heavy steps of steve maddens sag at his ears. katsuki’s back, jaw tight & angrier than ever.
further investigation will have to wait.
BAKUSQUAD CASE FILES — CASE STUDY #3.
observed by — denki kaminari
‘when the fuck did bakugo get funny?’
⟡
autumn break means thanksgiving shopping & black friday sales that make twelve dollar products drop to eleven ninety-nine. denki’s shopping for snacks, kiri needs energy drinks & you’re here for produce. katsuki is here because you all need his membership to get into costco.
something isn’t right.
& denki’s not talking about how the price of cheetos have somehow gone up. he’s talking about the fact that katsuki stands firm behind you, hands in pockets as you show him fruit. that’s fine—bakugo’s always been able to tell which apples are good & which aren’t.
but no apple evaluation requires katsuki to lean in that close.
and denki’s pretty sure there’s nothing funny about granny smiths either.
so why the fuck are you giggling ?
kaminari’s eyes flit to katsuki’s. if he was any other classmate, he’d say katsuki was bored. lips tight, eyes neutral, jaw slack. but denki’s no other classmate. he recognizes that twitch in his brow. the bob in his jugular.
katsuki is pleased. at least, denki thinks—no, swears he is. but just to be safe, he chooses to call in an actual katsuki expert. kirishima’s fatass is trying yet another free sample. for the sake of peace, denki chooses not to comment & instead goes straight to business.
“yo, kiri—i’m not seeing stuff, right? is bakugo not smirking and making y/n laugh??”
kirishima, in true fatass fashion, responds with a mouth filled with mini tacos. “I down’t see ‘t”
“bro. chew.”
“I don’t see it,” kiri gulps. “don’t you think we should respect their privacy?”
“we’re at a costco??”
but kaminari drops it. if the katsuki expert himself says there’s nothing, there’s obviously nothing.
right ?
BAKUSQUAD CASE FILES — CASE STUDY #4.
observed by — literally everyone
‘katsuki and y/n are definitely dating. oh, and kiri’s getting kicked from the group chat.’
⟡
mina ashido is not playing around.
the rest of the gang isn’t either. kaminari’s flipping through a scrapbook titled ‘PHOTOGRAPHICAL EVIDENCE.’ sero’s screenshotting group chat messages that sound too fond to not be affectionate. kirishima’s got his laptop open, looking over ‘evidence spreadsheets’ he swears aren’t empty.
but they are. and mina, rivaled only by sherlock himself, notices.
“kirishima, cell B-4. what’s written in there ?”
“I—uh, cell? what do you—“
“aha—” mina shuts her book. she’s towering over eijiro now, hands on her hips & glare so sharp it melts kiri like—well, acid.
“you’re not really doing anything.”
sero lifts a brow. kaminari gives the stink-eye.
“matter of fact…” mina continues, “you haven’t done anything. compiling evidence. listening in on on their convos. you haven’t done anything we’ve asked you to.”
“yeah,” sero quips. his phone’s in his lap now. “matter of fact, you always had some excuse about why you couldn’t.”
“matter of fact,” denki joins, “you’re always trying to deny evidence. talking about us ‘being delusional’.”
oh, kirishima’s in trouble now. blood in his jugular. tar in his throat. “I—“
mina can’t make up what happens next.
The door opens. It’s katsuki—not surprising—they’re literally all seated in a circle on the mat in his dorm. plans to hang out & just chill today—the usual. kiri is bakugo’s roommate. getting in isn’t a fuss.
but you’re right beside bakugo.
and your finger’s in his belt loop.
mina blinks. you haven’t noticed them yet. you look all calm and pretty, lashes low, eyes glued to your phone screen. your finger’s looped around the belt-hole like you’ve done it a thousand times before, and—
is that katsuki’s hoodie?
“what the fuck are you losers doing here?”
kiri’s already scrambling to defend the situation—something about she & the others showing up an hour early, he didn’t know, don’t blast us all—but mina’s not listening. she’s wondering if the refractive index of light is so strong it somehow made it look like katsuki gave your hand a light squeeze before tapping your hand off his jeans.
you’re still quiet behind him. hair all cute, jam-pink cheeks, fawn freckled & doe-eyed. kiri and katsuki are going back and forth. sero’s joined in. kaminari’s farted because he thinks no one will notice.
“y/n, is that bakugo’s hoodie?”
you can hear a pin drop. and another fart from kaminari.
“no, it’s—“
“it’s mine.” katsuki steps forward, hands in pockets & posture lazy like he didn’t say something scandalous. “got a problem, pinkie pie?”
“i could never.”
katsuki hums. he tugs you gently by the palm, door clicking shut behind him with the kick of his shin. he trudges toward the group, right hand in his pocket, left in yours—and he murmurs a quiet sit in your ear before doing a once-over.
“what’s all this?”
“evidence.”
“homework.”
“not evidence.”
tongue click. “evidence of ?”
“the refractive index of light.”
“you and y/n dating.”
“not you and y/n dating.”
“uh-huh,” katsuki picks up a photograph. he recognizes the scene: you’re tucked in his side, showing him something on your phone while he leans too close to be considered casual. you’re giggling here. cute.
he pockets it. “you guys are a bunch of fuckin’ idiots. and you—“ he turns to kirishima,
“no, no bro listen,” kirishima’s palm rests on his neck, an apologetic glance in your direction before he answers, “I did try to get them to leave you guys alone. they wouldn’t listen!”
“aha! so you were a traitor!”
bakugo glares. mina shrinks.
a muffled giggle pierces the silence. then a snort. & now you’re full on laughing—
“oh my god,” you sniffle, “you guys know we were literally gonna tell you, right?”
“tell us when?” sero speaks up, long moved away from kaminari. “it seems kiri here already knew about it.”
bakugo grunts. “why do you idiots think you’re here?”
oh.
bakugo takes a seat beside you. sero’s avoiding eye contact. kaminari’s avoiding the cheetos. mina bites her lip. you’re leaning over katsuki’s thigh now, photo evidence flip-book in your hands. you’re pointing out familiar photos while laughing & shaking your head, and bakugo’s looking back with a gaze so soft that mina doesn’t know how she didn’t see it sooner.
“i think we owe you two an apology.”
katsuki’s got his fingers twisting your knuckle. “y’think?”
sero, mina, and denki all look towards each other.
“we’re sorry.”
“for what?”
“for stalking you guys.”
“and not trusting that you’d tell us.”
“and being idiots.”
katsuki hums, satisfied. but he’s not done yet. he leans back on his palms before gently poking your hip. “should we forgive ‘em?”
“maybe. if they can send some of these photos.”
bakugo nods, turns to mina. “you heard the missus.”
“girl, take the whole book. like—seriously. omg.”
you hug it towards your chest, and mina can tell bakugo’s fighting a smile.
“right. and since you guys know now, you can all leave.”
the three protest. kiri interrupts. “i think it’s for the best. it’s been a long day.”
“that includes you, shitty hair.”
“huh—what?! this is my room too!”
“don’t care,” katsuki tugs you up with him, grip gentle, palm flat against your back as he steers you towards his bed.
“and didn’t ask,” he glances over his shoulder, “all of you, out.”
You slam the door behind you and stand wide eyed, panties a tight ball in your fist.
“I slept with Sanji last night,” you announce. You feel sick.
Nami sighs, not sparing you a glance from her focused nail painting. “Happens to the best of us.”
Your jaw drops. “Us?”
sanji x reader
6.3k words | oneshot, complete
minor spoilers for whole cake island, mutual pining, smut (p in v, fingering, overstimulation), porn with feelings, friends with benefits, friends -> fwb -> lovers, mentions of mutually drunk sex, reader uses she/her
read on ao3
note: this is me coming to terms with the fact that post-Whole Cake Island, I may in fact be in love with this stupid wet cat of a man. i tried my best to keep him in character but who knows!!
The sun is warm, its rays streaming through the windows. You hum while turning in the sheets, eyes fluttering open. It takes a few seconds for your vision to clear—soft edges sharpening as your body adjusts.
It’s a pleasant morning. You feel good: warm, a little sore, heart fuzzy with an inexplicable glee. Your forehead throbs from last night’s wine, but it’s dull against your giddiness.
You blink once, eyes flitting across the room, and your stomach drops.
The sheets fly as you throw yourself out of bed. Your legs wobble as you race to collect your clothes from the floor, tossing on your dress and clutching your undergarments in a vice grip before yanking the door open and speeding down the hall. Your stomach is a ball of knots while you sprint to Nami’s room. You burst in without knocking.
The ginger sits cross-legged on her bed, a bottle of nail polish at her side as she brushes liquid cerulean along her fingertips. Her only reaction is the quirk of her brow and a cursory glance.
You slam the door behind you and stand wide eyed, panties a tight ball in your fist.
“I slept with Sanji last night,” you announce. You feel sick.
Nami sighs, not sparing you a glance from her focused nail painting. “Happens to the best of us.”
Your jaw drops. “Us?”
She doesn’t reply.
“You—” you point at her. “You don’t even like men!”
She blinks, unphased. “You’d really call him a man?”
You have no response.
(The man—or not man, according to Nami—in question stands at the entrance of his cabin. In his hands is a tray with breakfast dishes: affectionately sliced fruit, neatly arranged bread, a serving of rice. It’s paired with freshly squeezed juice and an additional cup of tea, of course.
He stares into his room, now emptied of you. The covers are half strewn off the bed and a pillow is on the floor. Your hair tie sits on the nightstand. There’s a smear of lipgloss on the sheets.
His smile dies, morphing to a tug of disappointment. He sighs, shoulders and heart drooping.)
Nami stands by the door unamused. “You can’t hide here all day,” she says flatly.
You’re curled on the floor, leaning against her bed. “I’m emotionally processing.”
“You’ve been processing for an hour.”
“I need to process for longer.”
“You need to eat,” she retorts. “You didn’t have breakfast. Come to lunch.”
Your face twists. She’s not wrong; your headache has grown significantly, at least partially due to your empty stomach. But where there’s food, there’s Sanji—the other source of your distress. You are not ready to see him.
“You can’t ignore him forever,” she adds.
Meekly, you reply, “But I can ignore him today.”
She sighs, face softening with a poorly contained grin. She steps away from the door and crouches beside you.
“I’ll bring you lunch,” she says. “But you owe me a thousand berry.”
You huff, smiling.
“Fine.”
You crawl under the bed, hiding behind the bedskirt in case someone comes looking for you. It’s dark and quiet, the rocking of the Sunny a lullaby coaxing you to sleep.
But you can’t. Instead your mind continues to race, heart thrumming against the wooden floor as you run in metaphorical circles. Fragments of the night reel through you: ghosts of touches, whispers of filth, the most intense euphoria rushing through your body. Just the thought of Sanji’s hands on you makes your legs squeeze together.
Because as hard as it is to admit… you like Sanji. He’s handsome and charming. He’s a strong fighter, self-sacrificing, and always ready to serve others. If you listed all of his qualities on paper and held it at arm's length, you’d think he’s a suitable match, even. Because he’s Sanji, the chef for the Straw Hat pirates.
But he’s Sanji. Sanji the pervert and the man with eyes for any creature that looks remotely like a woman. He’s Sanji, the man who calls you his darling love, but uses the name for every woman he meets. He’s Sanji, a man who makes passes at you so frequently you assume they mean nothing.
And you know why he’s like this, all the answers turned crystal clear when he returned to the crew—when he returned home, here at the Sunny instead of Germa Kingdom. What can you expect from a man who… who wasn’t man enough, according to the standards of his family? Whose natural gentleness and desire to serve was rejected and punished. Whose only experience of love came from the women in his life.
You know the story of not-Vinsmoke Sanji. But knowing why he acts this way doesn’t mean you can handle anything beyond your usual dynamic—your amused dismissal of every pass he makes, no matter what kind of warmth he manages to strike in your heart.
You sigh. The boat rocks.
The door opens. Your stomach clenches before relaxing when you spot Nami’s shoes.
“What the hell?” she grumbles when she sees the empty room.
You slide yourself from beneath bed and she yelps. You feel like an idiot.
“Sorry,” you mumble, face burning. “I got worried someone would come looking for me.”
She smiles pitifully. “That bad, huh?”
You nod. She sets down the tray; a plate of fried rice with a small bowl of fruit and a slice of toast. You have both juice and tea.
“He insisted you eat it all,” she adds.
Your stomach clenches, stinging with hunger while your appetite simultaneously fades away.
(Sanji’s lunch is no easier, similarly distracted by thoughts of you.
But unlike you, his mind flashes with visions of the night before. You were a mess in the sheets, head thrown back as he bullied his cock against your clit, teasing your entrance with filthy condescension until you begged and wailed. Tears streamed down your cheeks, clumping in the length of your lashes. Your eyes sparkle beautifully.
He sunk into you with a promise— to give you everything you wanted. You had all of him; there was no reason to beg. He would give himself to you as long as you were with him.
And then you left his room in the morning.
You didn’t come to lunch.
The visions fade as reality settles in. He wonders if you’re okay. Will you eat all the food he sent with Nami? Did he upset you? Did he hurt you? Was it too much last night, when he… when he didn’t let it end with just one cry of release, one broken whimper of his name. What about when he turned you on your stomach, pushing his hand along the curve of your back and—
He exhales in his seat, gritting his teeth while recalling the way you clawed at the sheets, the tightness and… and the wetness and warmth you engulfed him in as he fucked you.
“You okay Sanji?” Usopp interrupts his thoughts. “Your nose is bleeding and you’re not even being a horndog for anyone.”
The cook coughs in surprise, rice catching in his throat.
Zoro makes a face of disgust across the table.)
Nami doesn’t let you escape dinner.
“I’ll give you five thousand berry!” you wail, trying to twist out of her grip. How is she so strong?
“You don’t even have that much,” she mutters. “And this is my room. Go rot somewhere else at least.”
Your stomach tightens. Nobody else would guard dog you effectively against Sanji—except for Zoro, but even in your panicked state you have the tact not to go that far.
So you sit yourself, begrudgingly, between Nami and Usopp at the table. Contrary to your worries, the cook doesn’t burden you with special attention beyond the usual, humming, “For you, dear,” as he tables your plate. You nod curtly, eyes averting to your food while ignoring the heat crawling up your neck.
He sits across from you. Despite the knots in your stomach you somehow sustain your appetite. Sanji offers you another portion and you manage to decline without choking on your last bite. You meet his eyes, those crystal clear waters, and are immediately hit with a full wave of guilt.
This is Sanji, you remind yourself. Safe, sensitive, sacrificial Sanji.
An embarrassed smile crosses your face, one just for him, and the grin he returns is blinding.
Relief settles in your chest. The knots in your stomach begin to unravel. With him smiling so sweetly across from you, eyes so earnest in their care, you trust that you can work this out. If that means a terribly embarrassing conversation followed by sweeping your feelings under the rug indefinitely, then by god that’s what you’ll do.
As an attempt to make reparations you offer to help with the dishes, but you leave when he begins a monologue about the disgrace of making a woman do his work for him.
“Oh, but share a bottle of wine with me when I’m finished here, yes?” He calls.
You nod meekly. He’s asking to talk, the minimum you can do for him after your earlier avoidance.
He flashes another sunny smile, and you duck out of the room before the flush can take over your face.
Once again, you wake up in Sanji’s bed.
This time there are no signs of an explicit night you don’t remember. You’re fully clothed—although, in different clothes than what you were wearing the evening prior—and your body has its strength, no soreness lingering in your hips and back. You lay tense, staring at the ceiling as you wonder why you’re incapable of learning from your mistakes.
You frown as your head throbs, digging through your memory for what happened. There’s a hazy vision of Sanji’s attempt to have a conversation, you downing glasses of wine like water to cope with your embarrassment. His somber smile is the last you remember.
(Sanji did his best, all things considered.
The first time truly was mutual inebriation. In his drunken state, he was weak to your advances. Or maybe the advances were his own, his usual dance of flirtation that you were all too willing to give into. But regardless you reciprocated, and he had no choice but to follow your lead.
But last night… you chugging glass after glass to find the courage to speak, to sit there with him… of course he wouldn’t touch you or take advantage of you when he had a power over you that he shouldn’t be privy to in the first place.
He can admit that he took you to his room for the night, partly out of his own selfishness to hold you close—no matter how troublesome his poor restraint might be—and partly to look after you, to be there in case something were to happen to you.
Oh—he would never forgive himself.)
“Good morning, my sweet,” his voice calls beside you. The mattress shifts and you reluctantly turn to the source.
The cook leans above you, seated on the bed. A tray of breakfast foods sit on the bedside table, his hands pausing their diligent spreading of jam on toast to carefully sweep at your hair instead. His touch is warm, loving. You feel nauseous.
“I’m so glad I didn’t miss you this time. You need to eat breakfast,” he continues.
You think you should die. You keep that to yourself, for Sanji’s sake.
The cook helps you sit up, offering foods that are easy on your stomach. You thank him diligently and shovel them into your mouth. He holds up a slice of apple after you’ve swallowed your bite of bread. You ignore his reddening face, his eyes trained on your lips.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t press for answers. Instead he watches you, moving gently, smiling warmly.
After your second piece of toast and three slices of apples, determination blooms in your chest. When you speak your voice wavers, but you push through.
“Sanji,” you start. He tenses at the call of his name. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to—” you pause, catching your own lies. “I mean, I did mean to run away yesterday, but I don’t want to act that way around you.”
You receive another smile, one so understanding that your heart squeezes. “It’s okay, my love. If you truly want to leave, I don’t mind. You must know that I would never do something you don’t want.”
Something shatters in your chest.
“No—” you immediately protest. This is Sanji: safe, sensitive, sacrificial Sanji. “It’s not that I don’t want this, it’s just—I don’t—”
Your face pinches in frustration, half pleading for help. But Sanji flushes again and you try to smother the expression.
“I don’t want things to change between us, I guess,” you manage flatly.
He hums, reaching to swipe at the corner of your lip. His touch brings your skin to life, buzzing. You swallow.
“I understand,” he answers.
Your heart crumples at his agreement. Then it hardens, annoyed at your own lack of consistency. Aren’t you the one afraid of taking anything further, of sharing your feelings with him out of fear for his character, fear for his loyalty?
He likes you, you know this. Or at least, you know he’s attracted to you, enough to have his eyes morphing into those obnoxious hearts, to be visibly affected by your presence. But his attraction to women, his fawning and his pledges of love, don’t necessarily mean he’s committed to one woman in particular.
Maybe he thinks you’re hot, and that’s that.
You watch the cook as blankly as you can, smothering any expressions while arguments bounce along the perimeter of your mind. You go back and forth, thinking up new perspectives just to immediately refute them. Sanji watches you, blue eyes trained as if he can read the dialogue.
Would it not be better to ask him?
No, that’s too easy. Too easy to set yourself up for rejection, to hear confirmation of every concern you have about his perception of you.
Instead a new idea blooms in your mind. A voice of reason sits on your shoulder, shouting at you that it’s a recipe for regret. But when you sit in front of Sanji’s warm gaze, his gentle eyes, his beautiful face, you find that you have no strength. You would rather deprive yourself of what you want from him if it means getting to be closer to him at all.
“I liked sleeping with you,” you clarify before you can stop yourself. Your face flames. Sanji freezes as he listens carefully. “… I’d be interested in doing that again—if everything else can stay the same.”
You avert your eyes, not ready to see his reaction. Even so, you can hear the sharp intake of his breath. One of his hands takes yours resting on his blanket.
“Angel,” he pleads.
You keep your eyes averted. His free hand raises to your chin, finger guiding it upward. When you meet his gaze, you can’t look away, even after his hand falls.
“You must know that I would do anything you wished.”
The confession makes your heart race, then sting. You frown.
“Sanji, I’m not asking you to do whatever I want. I want you to want it too—”
He huffs, face twisting in amusement, twisted with something else, something more complicated. Something almost melancholy.
In an instant his mouth is on you, hungry as it parts your lips. His hand runs up your arm, then slides down your back to clutch your side. You gasp in surprise, feeling him grin as he swallows the sound. You’re forced on your back, a hard chest pressing against your own. His hips meet yours, firm bulge already present and growing.
As soon as he’s on you, he pulls his mouth away, leaving you panting. His lips attach to your neck, peppering kisses on his way to the base of your jugular before he sinks his teeth into the skin. You gasp and feel him smile against you for a second time.
“Are you still hungry, dear?” he asks.
You’re dizzy, mind swirling as he continues south, sucking at your collarbones. Any hunger for food has evaporated, incinerated in your stomach from the fire that sparks. It’s replaced with a hunger for him.
“Sanji—” you breathe, brokenly.
He groans against your skin, hips rutting against your thighs. He’s fully hard, and you’re aching.
“My love,” he gasps. The name strikes your heart both in pain and glee. “If you say my name like that—”
“Sanji,” you cry again when his hand lowers to pinch your nipple beneath your shirt. He’s relentless, sliding his hand to cup your cunt. You nearly choke, “Sanji.”
When he has you like this, spread open and tearing off your clothes, lowering himself to get a taste of you everywhere, you’re powerless. All the heartache in the world couldn’t keep you from giving in, from letting him drag a finger up your wetness—wetness made for him—and sink into your folds.
(And it’s true, what you think: that it’s enough for him to have you this way. It’s enough to touch you and kiss you and memorize every curve of your body, to burn the memory of your taste on his tongue. If that’s what you want.
Or, that’s what he’ll tell himself, if it means having you at all.)
Things don’t change on the surface. You and Sanji are still friends, still normal around the others aboard the Sunny. Normal entailing that he makes you a drink when the sun blares harshly, offers to take your shirt if you want to remove a layer. These gestures and suggestions make your heart flutter and your gut tighten, but that’s how it is—how it’s always been.
Part of you leans into it, wants to play pretend for a moment longer as if he’s yours. Until, of course, you catch a glimpse of him with Nami and Robin, offering the same drinks, leaning in the same way he does with you.
Something twists inside your stomach. You look away.
This is how you want it—or maybe not how you want it, but how it needs to be for your own sanity. For your protection. It’s a reality check: no matter how much sugar Sanji feeds you, it will never be something special. You are just another woman.
“Darling, I—”
You grimace on instinct, butterflies turned to an ache in your chest as Sanji approaches with a plate. It looks delicious, layers of frosting and cake and fruit. Your expression must be easy to read, because Sanji backs off easily when you reject the offer of the dessert.
(You miss that there was only one plate. Only one dessert, made just for you.)
Somehow that same day you end up tangled in your sheets, face down and whining as he runs a hand along your spine to press you further into the mattress. You’re aching, slick bared to cool air as he teases you, bullies his tip around your overstimulated entrance, singing praise when he sinks in for another round.
The position is a savior, your face buried in the mattress where you can keep your feelings secret, where you can’t be read so easily. It feels good, so good. Sanji treats you well, knows all the ways to have you unravel for him, to have you lost and open and honest, so vulnerable in his grasp. How many women has he laid with to obtain this skill? You wonder if he knows how hard it is to let him taste your skin and come inside you, to give you moments that feel as if it’s only ever been the two of you, that his arms were made to hold you and only you.
When you come again, spasming around him while his lips mutter filth into your ear, there’s a hollowness in your chest.
He must be oblivious to how you feel, if he’s able to dance this dance with you—if he can see your tears as you finish and kiss them away in the aftercare. You smile lazily, playing it off as your subspace, and thank him. Isn’t this how you want it to be?
(But Sanji is one of the smartest of the Straw Hat Pirates. He is far from oblivious. However, he is weak-willed when it comes to you.
Something is warring in your heart, something large beneath the surface, with the power to shake the earth. He is aware, always on the precipice of asking. You are far too precious to feel pain, to be distraught. The end of your closeness with him, your tenderness and your touch, would wound him, but that sort of loss is nothing new for Sanji. He will manage.
He would ask, always wants to stop and hear you speak. But then you climb atop him, spreading your legs, and he throbs, aching for you. Your hand takes his length, hardening once more, to guide it through your folds, and all he can do is exhale as he watches in amazement as you sink down, beautiful face pinched as you fill yourself—fill yourself with him—
You take him to the hilt. He makes a sound, almost a whimper, before you lean back to grab his thighs and ride him. He gasps at the view: taut muscles, bouncing breasts, your cunt swallowing him with every drop of your beautiful body, and he has to bite down the string of I love you’s that threaten to leap from his lips.
He is powerless against you, too.)
“So can we call you two official?” Nami asks candidly. She sits cross legged on her bed, filing Robin’s nails.
“Huh?” you frown, painting clear polish across Usopp’s fingertips. The sniper is the honorary member of girl’s nights.
“You and Sanji.”
“What?” you and Usopp gawk in unison. His hands flail, smearing the brush over his skin. You frown at the mess.
“You and Sanji are dating?”
You huff, rolling your eyes while you reach for a paper towel. “No, we’re just seeing each other.”
“You and Sanji are fucking?”
Nami laughs while you scowl. Robin’s lips tug against her cheek. Usopp stares at you in disbelief.
“Usopp, I think even Luffy knows by now. They’ve been banging for weeks.”
The man’s jaw drops, a strangled noise coming up his throat. “No… No way. What do you mean you’re not dating? He’s been in love with you since—”
He yelps when you pinch him, flinching in your grasp.
“He is not in love with me,” you sneer.
Everyone stares at you blankly.
“He’s not!”
“Woah, I thought you were one of the smart ones,” the sniper says flatly. You pinch him again.
“He doesn’t love me,” you repeat. “He’d say those words back to anyone.”
Brown eyes blink at you. “Don’t tell me… You’re in love with him?!”
“It… I don’t know,” you trail off with a grimace. “It doesn’t matter, anyways. I don’t want us to be anything more.”
He groans, free hand covering his eyes. “This is the worst. You’re both idiots! Oh we’re doomed…”
You roll your eyes and resume your work on his nails in silence. Robin is the first to break it.
“You should know by now that you can trust your crew. Maybe—”
“Stop,” you command, cutting her off. Her eyebrows raise, both in surprise and challenge, but she obeys.
“Sanji,” you huff, shoulders rolling his arm away. “Enough with the couple stuff.”
His face flickers with something painful, eyes shining with a moment of hurt before he schools into an easy smile. “Sorry dear,” he answers, sliding away.
Your heart aches at the gesture, but you don’t take back your words. Instead you watch as he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pants and heads for the door of the tavern.
“Good riddance,” Zoro chimes beside you, nursing his third sake.
You huff.
A quiet falls over your corner of the room, the two of you taking in the space: Usopp and Franky dancing, Nami chatting up a rich-looking man, Robin standing quietly to the side. You frown when you notice Brook’s missing presence, head craning to finally spot him on the other end with the music. Zoro’s eyes repeatedly dart to Luffy, where he sits surrounded by empty plates and boisterous company.
Your heartache grows when you spot Zoro’s fingers tapping the handles of his swords. Ready, in case something were to stir. Ready to defend, time and time again without question.
A pang of jealousy strikes your chest. You wonder what it’d be like to receive that sort of devotion, too.
“You and Luffy—” you stop, not sure where you were going.
“Huh?”
You swallow, eyes dropping as you swirl your drink. “You’d follow him anywhere, I guess.”
The swordsman frowns. “He’s my captain. … Yours too.”
Something heavy crawls up your throat. “You would even if he wasn’t.”
He grunts. “... Yeah.”
You glance to the side, away from him. Your eyes meet the door again, just in time for Sanji’s second entrance. You think he’ll look for you first, make his way over even after you shrug him off. A woman walks by, faltering when someone bumps into her. Sanji reaches on instinct, arm securing her at the waist. You watch despite the turning in your stomach as he grins, eyes solely focused on her form when he helps her stand upright, fingers trailing down her arm to grab her hand.
Good riddance, Zoro’s words repeat in your mind. Even if you did manage to rid yourself of Sanji, you know you’d be the only one suffering, watching him fall to his knees for the next woman who loves him.
You turn away with a grimace.
Zoro is still watching you, brow furrowed in a way you can’t decipher. If you had to guess, it’s a mix of concern and displeasure.
“I know,” you mutter. “I’m an idiot.”
He grunts—you don’t know if in affirmation or denial. Your stomach flips again.
“It’s better this way,” you conclude.
Green brows furrow further, now in pure disbelief. You don’t know what the expression is for, but the thought of trying to explain anything makes you want to cry. Your nose stings, a glimmer pooling beneath your irises, and the swordsman’s eyes widen with pure concern.
His lips part to speak, but the words never come.
“Hey marimo, quit it. You’re upsetting her.”
Zoro’s face pinches in irritation at Sanji’s scolding. Grey eyes dart to your side, the source of the voice, to argue. “Don’t blame me for your idiocy—”
You stand abruptly. The chair screeches on the floor, not loud in the ambiance of the room, but enough to silence the men. “I’m leaving,” you announce.
“Darling, is something wrong—”
“I want to go to the Sunny,” you interrupt.
“Oh, of course—”
“Alone,” you add, stepping away.
Sanji moves to follow, huffing out a confused, “Wait,” but Zoro intercepts him. You don’t bother attempting to listen to their argument, instead bolting for the exit.
(“Marimo, move,” Sanji growls.
The swordsman refuses. “You’re just gonna make it worse.”
The cook fumes, rage flooding through his arms. He has the urge to throw a punch. How would he know what upset you? Something ugly burrows in his chest. Does he know? Would you tell Zoro something that you couldn’t tell him?
He swallows, feeling sick.)
You’re most honest when you’re under him. Even when you’ve only had one drink, body fully sober, you can’t lie—and you can’t hold anything back.
So he asks then.
Your legs are open for him, splaying you on your back while he stands above you. His large palms press your thighs as he connects your hips with harsh thrusts. A mewl escapes your lips, chest panting as a hand travels up your belly and your breast, stopping to smooth over your clavicle.
“What’s happening here, angel?”
The words hardly register. You’re too consumed by his brutal pace, so he slows and asks again.
You blink rapidly, confused. “Huh?”
He leans forward, hips suddenly stalling as they pull back, dragging his length out of you painfully slow. You whine, head dizzy from the change.
“Sanji?”
He groans but doesn’t relent, stopping with his tip just barely inside of you. He rubs the skin between your breasts again.
“Your heart, love. Tell me what’s troubling it.”
He punctuates the command with an unexpected thrust, filling you all the way to the hilt. You choke, winded, and then scowl as he starts slowly pulling out again. Groaning, you try rutting your hips, but his hand holds them in place.
Anger bubbles in your chest. “Nothing.”
He hums, the thumb on your thigh stroking carefully. “Please.”
You huff, frowning. “Sanji, I’m fine. The only thing making me upset is this pace.”
He thrusts again and you cry, tightening around him. This time he doesn’t budge, remaining buried inside you. When you meet his eyes, they’re firm, searching.
“Sanji—”
He twitches inside you at the sound but refuses to move. “Tell me. You can tell me.”
You scoff. “I don’t want to tell you.”
A noise catches in his throat. His hand returns to your thigh before he pulls out and slams into you without warning, continuing his torturous thrusts.
“You can tell me anything. We were friends before anything else—”
“We aren’t anything else,” you sneer beneath him, face twisted. It’s a truth that strikes your gut, rips through your skin and flays you beneath him—raw, open. The pain tangles with the pleasure, swallowing you. “So please stop acting like it.”
Sanji’s face twists, crumpling from the request. “I can’t,” he confesses, hips rolling into you again. “I can’t have you like this and pretend that it’s enough. Not… not when I’m in love with you.”
Your chest empties of air, his words a punch to the gut.
“You don’t mean that,” you manage to whisper.
His eyes widen at the accusation. “What?” he asks, in disbelief.
(How could you challenge him and his love, assume that he would lie to a woman—to you? It’s one thing to have you reject his feelings; it’s another for you to think he does not mean them.)
You whine at his next thrust, how it touches you somewhere deep. Tears well in your eyes. Sanji jerks in surprise, hands immediately coming to cup your cheeks as you release a sob. It’s too much, so much that everything flows out of you without warning.
“You don’t love me,” you cry. “You’d love any woman—you just like that I let you touch me.”
“I love you,” he repeats desperately. “Why does it matter where the feelings come from?”
“Of course it matters. I… I want to be special to you—I want you to love me for myself.”
“You want me to love you?” his voice shakes.
“For me. Not just because I fell in love with you first.”
“You love me?”
(His heart thrums, racing in his chest. The buzz travels through his body, throbs in his cock. He thrusts harder without realizing, trying to satiate the ache.)
You sob harder. “It doesn’t matter—”
“Of course it matters,” he echoes your earlier words. Both hands grip your thighs until his knuckles pale. Sanji is always gentle with you—sometimes condescending, but never rough enough to leave marks beyond a love bite. Now he holds you in a bruising grip, thrusts fueled by anger. “I could be treating you like my wife—treating you like you deserve. Taking you out, buying you gifts—”
“Stop,” you wail.
He doesn’t, instead huffing as he stares down at your body beneath him. Sweat-slick and glistening, spread and curved.
“Never, beautiful. Never ever—”
“You’ll leave,” you snap. That gets Sanji to stop, stuttering his hips when his arms nearly give out.
“I would never—”
“You don’t love me, so you’ll leave me for the next woman.”
“What next woman?” he demands.
“The next one who falls for you.”
His fingers clench harder, nails scraping your skin. “You—you think I’d let you go? Darling, after all this?”
One hand releases to slide along your thigh and rub your clit. You sob again, a broken noise, body shaking against your will. “Wait—” you plead, feeling the coil within you tighten, but Sanji refuses, fingers dipping to swipe your dripping slick and rub you with it. In the next second you cry, vision flooding with static as the rush of your release consumes you.
Sanji’s hips give two more deep thrusts before they stutter, slapping with urgency before he presses to the hilt with a groan. Heat floods your insides as the aftershocks finally start to fade.
Anger floods your system as he collapses over you, his body a weight you can’t shake.
“Sanji,” you growl as you wriggle beneath him, pushing at his shoulders.
He slides his hands to capture yours. Pressing them into the mattress as he lifts his head and chest to look at your face.
“Oh my love, my darling angel—”
“Sanji,” you bark, heart racing with panic. “Stop.”
“You love me,” he announces.
Heat crawls up your neck and face. Your eyes sting from frustration. He blinks at your expression, one hand coming to cup your face.
“I love you, too.”
Your face pinches, “You don’t—”
“Please.”
You swallow, mouth clamping at the anguish on his face.
“Please believe me when I say I love you. Especially if you love me too.”
You grimace. “Sanji…”
“What can I do to make you believe me?” He pleads, heart open on his face. Desperate.
“I—I don’t know… Sanji, you fawn for every woman we meet, so much that you lose your reasoning. All it would take is a weak moment for you to get whisked away by someone else. Women are just women to you.”
Hot tears hit your cheek. “You—you think that about me? That I would… that I could be unfaithful to you?”
Your stomach sinks at his broken voice, his crushed expression peering down at you. But you nod, knowing he needs you to be honest.
He sighs in defeat, pulling out of you while he sits back, a hand lifting for him to smother his face. You watch with confusion.
(This is the uncertainty you were suffering through? Uncertainty about him, his affection for you, uncertainty about whether or not he would stay with you, stay loyal to you.
Is this how you see him?
Is this who he is?)
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
You don’t know what to say. Instead you keep your eyes trained on him, still lying on your back because your body is too weak to lift itself.
“Sanji,” you call.
He doesn’t look your way. (His head is not strong enough to meet you.)
“Sanji,” you repeat.
He sighs, eyes closing before opening again with resolve. He turns to look at you, filled with determination.
“Give me a chance,” he says firmly. “Please, let me show you who I can be for you.”
Your heart clenches, eyes wide with disbelief. He holds your gaze, ocean blue irises pleading.
“I don’t know…”
“Just one chance,” he wagers.
Your face twists with uncertainty. One chance usually comes with many smaller chances; you don’t know if you can handle the back and forth, the constant heavy conversations.
“I only need one,” he pushes. “Now that I know how you feel about me.”
You exhale, feeling your heart crawling towards him. What difference does it make at this point? You’ve been kicking yourself acting like a jealous girlfriend even while asserting to him that you aren’t together.
He doesn’t press any further, waiting for your response. You roam your eyes over his face, tracing the swirl of his brow, the slope of his nose. His eyes are focused but patient, lips smoothed neutrally. Sun colored hair frames his face in waves, stubble emphasizing his jaw. He’s beautiful.
He’s here, waiting for you to let him give himself to you.
You fold. “Okay.”
The grin that takes over his face is blinding, so overwhelming you want to bury yourself in the blankets. Who are you to elicit this kind reaction—such genuine crinkles around his eyes? His hands reach for you, gripping your side as he leans forward to lay against your body. Your breath falters.
“Thank you,” he mumbles as he kisses your temple. His lips travel across your face, claiming every speck of skin. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he says between each peck.
“Okay, okay,” you mutter, trying to pry him off you. But his grip is too strong.
“I love you,” he says, stealing your breath before capturing your lips. “My angel, I’ll prove to you how well you can be treated.”
Your chest stings at that, crawling up your face. You blink before tears can surface again. “Okay.”
Sanji laughs, a huffed and throaty sound, before burying his head into your neck. His hair tickles your skin, the touch of a feather, of lightness and freedom. You still feel uneasy, the future looming over you with all its unknown possibilities. But with Sanji in your arms, his warmth against your body, his declarations of love in the air—you feel there’s a future of joy waiting for you.
(On the horizon there’s a future where you still don’t understand. Maybe you will never understand; this is the reality of being two different people. However, there is a future with trust, where Sanji’s devotion has been proven, is proven daily, and you learn to lean into his love. A love he has never before received, and a love that he will only ever hold for you.)
sorry if the end is kind of bad and cringe and typical for me. i was going to try and make it sexier but i can only handle so much porn.
God Spelled Backwards is D-O-C-T-O-R (Trafalgar Law x Reader, Chapter VI)
Synopsis: Dr. Trafalgar Law is the brilliant, cold, new electrophysiologist fresh out of residency with something to prove. He wasted no time in singling you out as you battle his unyielding demands and an overbooked schedule with non-existent back up. Your dynamic goes beyond professional tension, and in a hospital where boundaries are protocol, and protocol is gold, it’s an all out fight for power and control.
Word Count: 8k
Tags/Warnings: Minors DNI, CardiacElectrophysiologist!Law, EchoTech!Reader, AFABFEM!Reader, Modern Hospital AU, Slight Sanji x Reader, Language, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Workplace Sexism, Alcohol Consumption (Wine with Dinner), Fluff
Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI
And so it went, with Law icing you out and you trudging through his unyielding current of patients. As you expected, Law was a peach as usual.
“Following me to critique my work again, Trafalgar?” You pushed your cart as fast as it could go without crashing into a wall. “Don’t forget about the optics. I would hate for you to have to talk to anyone. I know that’s not your strong suit.”
“The only optics you need to worry about are what things look like when imaging falls behind,” he muttered crisply. “I suggest you shape up and worry about yourself.”
“Love the attitude,” you muttered, “Real cute, Mr. Gray.”
“You started it,” he shot back. You shook your head.
“If you want to talk about who started what, we can go back to that first time you stormed all the way to my office to throw a fit about… What was it again? A repeat scan?” You glowered.
“See, you can’t even remember. Must not’ve been a big deal.” Law shrugged, “But you know what is a big deal?” Law put a hand on your cart, stopping you mid-step. He jabbed a thumb toward the door he stood in front of. “Paying attention to your surroundings.”
You crinkled your nose.
“I was told 207 first.”
“209, or do I have to bring reading numbers up in the next QC meeting?” He tapped the room sign vigorously. You took a breath, chewing at the inside of your cheek as if marinating the words you were about to spit.
“That’s low-hanging fruit, even for you, Trafalgar.”
“Doctor,” he corrected. “If you want things sugar-coated, maybe you should take a trip to see that friend of yours from the cafeteria. Or even better, I’m sure HR would be happy to talk to you like you’re twelve.”
“Referrals from a doctor,” you mused, “Did you come up with that one all by yourself, or are you just being ironic?"
“What can I say. I’m invested in my job and I take things seriously, unlike some other people here,” he retorted, turning toward the exam room door. “Now, fix your face. I don’t want you scowling at my patient.”
You laughed bitterly, “That’s rich coming from you.”
Law knocked on the door, turning the handle. You followed after him with your equipment, all smiles. Because Trafalgar Law aside, you were damn good at your job.
***
The small break room was surprisingly busy today. You supposed you weren’t the only one who was trying to be good and actually pack a lunch instead of raiding the caf or one of the many delectable food trucks downstairs.
Having a credit card linked to your badge was dangerous because one day you’re telling yourself that buying lunch for one day will be fine, and the next you’re looking at a slightly smaller paycheck than usual. Not to mention that all of the food cart prices are so temptingly reasonable that you end up buying half the line.
You were heating up something rather disappointing, but nutritious and filling, which would get the job done. Penguin and Shachi were at your usual round table nearest to the vending machine. The table space was too small to accommodate all three of you and your meals. It was wobbly, and Shachi always asserted that it wasn’t a real table, for whatever that was supposed to mean. But the three of you wouldn’t sit anywhere else.
You sat down with your hot tupperware, clearing out of the way just in time for Law to storm in and make straight for the coffee maker. You kept your eyes on him, watching him in a way that was more noticeable than you would have liked.
Shachi watched your gaze, following it discreetly to Law.
“Hey, pal… Are you… okay?” he tentatively asked. He placed down his fork, lacing his fingers together as he leaned against the table. Your eyes flickered toward him mid-bite.
“You’re pal-ing me?” you asked incredulously. You glanced around briefly before returning your gaze to Shachi. “Are you okay?”
Shachi and Penguin exchanged a look.
“You’ve been off lately,” Shachi said softly. “You’ve been doing a lot recently, and we’re just worried—”
“Hey, hey, hey! What’s with the whispers?” Perona appeared over your lunch table. Her fists sat triumphantly on the hips of her barely not red scrubs. You remembered when she dyed them herself. Red was an approved color for scrubs. Pink was not. She had taken it upon herself to dye five pairs of white scrubs a clear shade of pink (just barely not red) and handed out cash to anyone who would walk by her supervisor and compliment Perona on her red scrubs. She was ultimately allowed to keep them. Perona turned toward you, a broad grin on her glossy lips. “Is this about your date?”
Perona always spoke a little too loudly, especially when it came to gossip. She took it upon herself to pull up a random chair, sandwiching herself between Shachi and Penguin across from you. Perona rested her elbows on the table, scrunching her face in her palms as she leaned toward you, kicking her feet under the table.
“C’mon, c’mon, you gotta spill!” she begged. “We never hear anything fun in hospice. It’s so wonderfully gloomy,” she sighed.
Over her shoulder, Law had visibly stilled near the coffee maker. His back was turned to you. Now, you weren’t exactly friends with Perona. You spoke in passing, and typically, you might not have engaged with her at all. But…
“It’s just dinner.” You glanced down, a coy smile on your lips as the other side of the table practically exploded.
“You have to tell me everything!” Perona exclaimed.
Shachi and Penguin were far less enthused.
“Why didn’t you tell us anything?”
“Who is this bastard?”
Perona swiveled her head, glancing between the two with her nose wrinkled in disgust. She pressed a finger to her lips, shushing them loudly.
“Shut up! This is girl talk now!” She turned back to you with a giddy smile, placing her face between her hands again. “Tell me everything. Dinner, and you’re going? Wearing what? You’re going with Dr. Sanji, right? The doc who brings all the dieticians coffee in the morning?”
You couldn’t help the little smile that stretched out your lips. You tried to purse them to no avail.
“The Baratie—”
“WHAT?!” The name of the restaurant barely escaped your mouth before Perona suddenly stood, slamming her hands on the table. Penguin barely had time to snatch his bowl of soup up before Perona smacked her palm into it. “Are you kidding me?!”
She sank back into her chair, a jealous disbelief adorning her. Perona was officially causing a scene, and other staff members were beginning to turn around in their seats. Law stood leaning against the counter, his coffee in one hand and a small stack of papers in the other. His eyes glazed over them as he sipped.
“It’s that seafood place on 7th Ave across from the bay,” Law drawled, his inflection slightly raised in thought, but otherwise neutral. He continued to sip on his coffee, not taking his eyes from his papers.
“It’s exclusive as fuck, that’s what it is!” Perona cried. “I’ve been trying to get in there for months.”
“Damn,” Penguin sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, “Can I get a date with Dr. Sanji?” Law scoffed behind him.
“I’m sure you could,” he muttered with amusement, flipping a page in his packet. You glared toward him.
“Well, he asked nicely,” you hummed, turning back to Perona, who was hanging onto every word. “I swear, he’s one of the few doctors in this place who doesn’t have an attitude problem.”
“Uh, tell me about it,” Perona wilted, switching her cheek to one hand and letting the other fall onto the table. “I love Dr. Moria, like, a lot, but he can be a slave driver sometimes.”
“Perona, I don’t think you can say things like that,” Shachi muttered.
“So have you looked at the menu?” Perona continued with glee, “That place is pretty expensive. He’s paying, right? He has to be paying, so you can, like, get anything you want, and, like, it’s basically free, right?”
“I haven’t looked. I know Sanji probably has a few recommendations. I was going to wait until we got there,” you shrugged nonchalantly. Her eyes glinted.
“First name basis, huh?” she sighed. “You’re practically married at this rate.” Perona waggled her index finger toward you, nodding her head. “You know, he does look like he’d know a good wine pairing,” she mused, already swooning over the made-up scenario brewing in her head.
“A referral from a doctor,” Law mused, his voice rising slightly like he was sighing through making an announcement, “I thought you weren’t a fan of those.”
He glanced up at you for the first time since he entered the room, making eye contact for the briefest moment before looking back down at his paper.
“Guess I’ll take them from doctors I like,” you shot back.
Law placed his cup underneath the coffee maker and popped in another pod. He didn’t say a word for the rest of your conversation with Perona and took his leave shortly after.
***
That Friday, you met Sanji at the Baratie. You had just enough time to shower, change out of your scrubs, and look somewhat presentable rather than looking like you just stumbled out of the OR. Although you were sure Sanji wouldn’t have minded if you showed up in scrubs or covered in blood, for that matter.
He stood at the entrance of the restaurant, a small bouquet of roses in his hand. He smiled when he saw you, standing from the stone wall where he had been leaning to meet you.
Sanji wore stylish, carefully pressed slacks with a matching belt. His cream-colored turtleneck was slightly tucked, and he sported a designer suit jacket over his shoulders. Even his shoes matched his entire ensemble.
“You know,” he started, kissing you on both cheeks in greeting before holding the bouquet out to you. “I have a suspicion.”
“Oh, really?” you hummed, “And what’s that?”
Sanji looped his thumbs through his belt loops, rocking slightly on his heels.
“I think there’s a reason you hide in scrubs all day—” His lip dipped flirtatiously as he carefully took your hand, leaving his opposite thumb still looped in front of the belt on his hip. Sanji brought your knuckles up to his lips. —“Because if you wore anything else, you’d have half the men on the block dropping dead where they stood.”
He pulled his lips away with a wink, standing back to his full height.
“Not that the scrubs were saving us much.” He still had your fingers draped over his. “Shall we?”
Sanji led you to the restaurant. You thanked him for the flowers and admired them as you were led to your seats. He had already made a reservation in advance, and the moment the staff saw Sanji, they greeted him warmly and took you back straight away. They had even taken your flowers from you, returning to the table with them beautifully arranged in a stylish vase to display at the table.
“I haven’t been here before,” you admitted, flashing Sanji a charming smile, “I don’t presume you have any recommendations?” you asked, and god, was that the question to ask.
Sanji’s face lit up, his eyes glittering like a kid who had just heard the words ice cream.
“You have to try the oysters,” Sanji leaned forward. He hadn’t even picked up the menu, and as he continued to speak, it dawned on you that Sanji didn’t have a menu. “And trust me, they’re exquisite with a glass of Chablis. The minerality brings out the brine like nothing else.” He shook his head in glee at the thought.
“The lobster bisque is a staple here. We’ve been using the same recipe for decades. My old man catches everything fresh himself from the bay, and— have you ever had a fresh lobster bisque? Like, actually fresh?” Sanji’s eyes continued to shine. It was cute.
You shook your head. However, you picked up on the we in his sentence.
“No, I don’t think I have—”
“We’ll have to get that too!” he interjected. “Oysters will be our opening note. The Chablis, as I mentioned before, is designed to awaken the palate. Then the lobster bisque… And then let’s do the seared scallops with a nice Chardonnay. Delicate, light so our taste buds aren’t overwhelmed. You gotta think about the flow of things when you’re eating, especially for appetizers.”
Soon enough, Sanji had your entire meal planned out down to the drinks and dessert. And perhaps that would have been rather sexy if your dinner plans hadn’t completely dominated the conversation.
“So,” you asked as the oysters were being served. “How did you get into medicine?”
“It actually comes back to the kitchen,” Sanji explained, “I used to work here, and I’d be in the kitchen from when I was a kid all the way through my schooling. My stepdad runs this place, and he taught me everything I know about food. And food can actually change lives, you know—” Sanji kept speaking as he arranged a few things on the table, placing little dishes of garnish between the two of you. — “Eat better, feel better. That’s what I wanted to help people with.”
He gestured to the oysters and the wine.
“You gotta tell me what you think,” he beamed, watching you a little too closely as you ate and drank. Sanji stared at you intently, in fact, hanging onto every second of silence before your review, as if you were a critic. “Can you taste the brine?” he asked gleefully.
It was an oyster in all of its glory. And the wine was a wine. Both were good. Both were food, but you didn’t have nearly the vocabulary to have the caliber of conversation you presumed that Sanji wanted from you.
“It’s wonderful,” you said, a beat too late.
Sanji nodded profusely.
“And the wine is just a spectacular pairing, isn’t it?”
You hummed in agreement.
“It is,” you nodded, “You used to work here for your stepdad?”
Sanji was all too eager to answer. Your other two appetizer courses came and went, and you were sure he didn’t stop talking about the restaurant until you were about done with your main course. If he wasn’t talking about the restaurant, he was asking for an in-depth report on how his pairings were.
It was entirely too much room and even more food talk and commentary to boot. You could probably give an entire presentation about the history of the Baratie, Chef Zeff’s fishing habits, and their dairy supplier. You also weren’t used to having your glasses of wine stripped from you without finishing them.
“What do you like to do outside of work?” you asked the moment you sensed a lull in the conversation. “Or the restaurant,” you added, hoping not to sound rude.
“There’s a wine tasting club that I go to called Cercle du Sommelier. One of my dreams is to become a master commelier…”
The night dragged on, and it became apparent that Dr. Sanji wasn’t single in the slightest.
He was in a throuple marriage to food and wine, respectively.
***
Penguin and Shachi wanted to meet up with you that weekend. They felt butthurt that you hadn’t told them about your date with Sanji—although you were getting to that when you were having lunch together—and it had been quite a long time since the three of you spent time together outside of work.
But then life happened; you remembered errands you’d been putting off, items around your place that needed attention, and on top of it all, the city received more rain this season than it ever had before. And so, buddy time was rain-checked.
You saw each other again at the hospital on Monday morning. The air was humid and muggy from the weather. The roads were covered in fog. However, none of that seemed to matter from the endless purgatory that was the North.
“Meet me in imaging,” you texted to your group chat, aptly named Da Fibrillation Nation.
“Can’t,” Penguin typed back. “Shachi got his oats stuck in the microwave again. He unplugged it and now it won’t open.” He added an upside-down smiley emoji.
“This isn’t a euphemism, is it?” you asked, and upon hearing no answer, you sent another message, “Stay there, I’m coming over.”
The breakroom was once again bustling with some mild talk, as usual. Most folks were just settling in for the day, talking about their weekend activities and lamenting the worst day of the week that was Monday. And sure enough, Penguin and Shachi were occupying the microwave.
Shachi had the entire thing in his arms as he tried to wrestle it open. The power cord that hung out the back waggled around on the counter.
“You have to hit cancel twice before you try to open it,” you sighed, walking over to the pair before they broke the microwave even more than it already was.
The thing was ancient and a terrible yellow color. You weren’t sure if it was sold as the most awful shade of yellow and beige or if it had been turned that color from the decades you were sure it had been there.
“I did,” Shachi cried. “I hit it three times.”
You shook your head.
“You can only hit it two times, remember? Any more and you have to hold down the potato button before it’ll open. Hey— careful! You’re going to break it. Put it back on the counter and plug it back in!” you stormed up to them, pointing sternly at where the microwave should have been sitting.
Shachi heaved the dinosaur of a kitchen appliance onto the counter, and Penguin ducked down under into the cabinets to fish the cord down to the outlet.
And sure enough, the moment the light blinked back on, Shachi held down the potato button. He held it for about five seconds before trying the microwave door button again, and to his surprise, it sprang open to reveal his instant oatmeal.
“Where the hell did you learn that?” Shachi gestured with conviction toward the microwave.
“Wapol, if you’d believe it,” you shrugged.
A blur of pink zoomed through the hallway, passing by the breakroom before doubling back.
“Oh. My. God.” By the time you turned at the sound of her voice, Perona was already upon you. “How was it? Was it everything you dreamed? Was the food absolutely amazing?”
But unlike last time, Shachi and Penguin had been simmering in some conviction.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Shachi slotted himself between you and Perona with Penguin in tow. “You don’t get to hear any details about the date before we do.” Shachi gestured between himself and Penguin. Penguin nodded along.
“We’ve got dibs on the news because you deprived us of it last time,” he asserted.
A table of fellows— namely Niji, Yonji, and Marco— sat directly behind this little spat. The Vinsmoke brothers swiveled in their chairs.
“A date, huh?” Niji purred, resting his arm on the back of his chair and his opposite elbow on the table. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
And suddenly, six pairs of eyes were on you. You smiled nervously, letting out an anxious giggle, tugging on Shachi’s sleeve.
“This is exactly why I told you to come to imaging,” you hissed awkwardly.
“Oh shit, you did?” he whispered back, although he wasn’t very quiet about it.
“So we get to hear about this date if we come down to imaging?” Yonji questioned mischievously, not even bothering to hide the suspicious smile on his face. He bumped his brother’s elbow. “Wanna take a field trip?”
“I’m down.” Niji turned to Marco, “Want to tag along?”
Marco gave an indifferent shrug, but continued to give attention to the situation in front of him as if he was watching a drama on TV.
You shook your head, hands out almost defensively in front of you.
“We are not taking a collective field trip to imaging.”
Perona pouted.
“So, the date didn’t go well?” You couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or absolutely ecstatic at the idea of a bad date story.
And of course, that was the moment Law decided to make an appearance. He walked in through the door, stopping short at the group that was amassed in front of him. He glanced around at the faces, stopping at yours. You turned your attention back to Perona.
“It was amazing,” you cooed.
The standing half of the group shifted to allow Law to get to the coffee maker. God, did he just need to get one for his office so he could stop walking in on your conversations like this?
“Ooooo! You have to tell!” Perona nearly jumped out of her shoes. “Did he kiss you goodnight? What did you eat? Did he pull out the chair for you?”
“When we got there, we already had the reservation, so we were taken to a table right away. Not only did he get my chair, but he also had a bouquet of roses waiting for me,” you boasted, all too aware of Law making his coffee somewhere behind you. “Honestly, he was absolutely perfect. So thoughtful.”
“Who, again?” Niji repeated. “I’m curious to know who in this hospital is your type.”
“Dr. Sanji, now shut up!” Perona swatted Niji on the back of the head. The two hardly knew each other, but no one was about to get between Perona and dating news.
“Sanji?” Yonji balked, turning to face Niji with wide eyes before darting back to you. “You went on a date with our brother?”
Niji laughed.
“And it wasn’t a complete disaster?” he barked.
Shachi tapped you rapidly on the shoulder.
“You went on a date with their brother? Not cool, dude,” he scolded under his breath. You frowned at him.
“Doesn’t count, Shachi, we barely know them.” Penguin corrected, which seemed to do the trick to relieve Shachi’s concern about the Bro Code™.
“He didn’t take you to our step-dad’s, did he?” Yonji raised a brow, his broad shoulders almost deflating in disbelief.
“Yes, he did,” you answered, chipper, “I know that restaurant means a lot to him. I think that him sharing that with me was so special.”
“Psh, I’m sure overloading your brain with more fun facts about wine than you could ever ask for was special, alright,” Yonji scoffed. “It’s all he talks about.”
“That’s so romantic,” Perona sang, “I love when a man can be vulnerable like that.”
“Oh, I agree,” you nodded, feeling Law move to grab something from a drawer behind you. “Emotional availability is such an important thing to me. That and clear communication.”
“Wow,” Perona sighed, “If you can find romance in a hospital, maybe miracles really do happen.”
And to your surprise, Law began to walk out of the room without a word. He had made his coffee, and then he was leaving.
“I think I really like him,” you said, just loud enough for Law to hear.
“Like like-like?” Perona exclaimed.
“It’s only been one date.” Penguin tugged at the shoulder of your scrubs.
You shrugged, keeping an eye on Law as he didn’t even stop or turn. He just left.
“When it’s right, it’s right…” You trailed. You weren’t even convincing yourself.
***
You turned up to Law’s wing with a brave face. You were convinced he had something to say. He had to have.
You saw him walk your way as you came down his hall with your equipment. You breathed in, opening your mouth to respond to whatever he was about to say.
“I’ve got a patient ready for you in 205,” he said curtly before entering another exam room. His words were devoid of snark or passive aggression. He was simply concise.
And for once, just like every other doctor, Law allowed you to do your work. You performed your scans and uploaded your work. Rinse, repeat.
The one time Law stood in on one of your scans, he did so from near the door. He stood just close enough to watch the monitor. Unlike every other time, he didn’t hover over your shoulder. He didn’t have any adjustments to comment on, and he didn’t adjust your probe while it was in your hand.
Law just stood, watched for a moment, said, “Upload the frames as soon as you’re done,” and left.
That was it. No smirk. No criticism. No clever comment.
He was a doctor doing his job.
***
You received a message through your secure chat two days later.
“Good morning, Dr. Trafalgar requested you for his 10:15 slot. Would you be available?” the message read.
It was a polite message from a scheduler you seldom spoke to. It wasn’t a storm thundering through your office announcing your presence at the 10:15 slot like it was a fact. It wasn’t pulling you from your lunch or even a quiet rearranging of your schedule with the assumption that you’d notice in time. This message was sent through the proper channels by the appropriate staff member.
“I can do that,” you messaged back, “Is Dr. Trafalgar unavailable today?” You clicked around on the schedule, wondering if he might have cancelled his clinic today. The scheduler got back to you with an answer the moment you saw it for yourself.
“No, I’ve just been asked to handle scheduling for his clinic from now on,” the message read, and it sent a heavy pang throughout your chest.
Your breath felt a bit heavier, and your heart pounded harder. You couldn’t say why.
***
You supposed you were thankful, in a way, that Law had backed off in rearranging your schedule. The little messages that would pop up every now and then, politely requesting your presence at certain times, were definitely less chaotic than being randomly pulled. But considering the shit-storm that was about to hit you in the following days, the messages only served to become another thing you had to keep an eye on.
You supposed that everyone just decided to collectively lose their godamn minds, because the way you’d been absolutely slammed before the weekend was something else.
You were barely able to squeeze through the day as it was with the workload you were given, but suddenly, imaging was utterly overwhelmed with requests. And on top of it all…
“I can make it in,” Nami argued from the other end of the phone. Her voice was raspy and interrupted by a cough or two. “I’ll power through with some medicine. I’ll be fine—”
“Nami, go back to bed,” you spoke calmly into the phone. You were already clicking through the week’s schedule for the Kokoyashi location. Luckily, only Hancock was present for the rest of the days that week. You assumed Hancock preferred the satellite because Nami staffed it, and things weren’t as chaotic as in the main hospital. She had more control over there. “It’s just Hancock. And it’s only two days. We’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, that’s the problem. Hancock is—”
“Picky, sure, but you know she’ll be a little more lenient with us,” you reassured. It was a stretch. Hancock wasn’t known to be lenient with anyone, but with your established rapport, you were sure you could talk her into something. “You know she will. And if I so much as see you clock in tomorrow, I’m driving down there.”
Nami paused on the other end of the line for a moment.
“I know you’ve got a lot on your plate.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll be fine,” you affirmed, already beginning to type a few things on your computer.
“But—”
“Goodnight, Nami,” you cooed. She was too weak to put up more of a fight. You took your opportunity and hung up.
You were still at the office even though clinic had already wrapped up. The increased workload had you staying even later than usual, and with a tech down at a satellite, you had to make arrangements quickly.
And you knew that one of your doctors was still in his office.
You made for Law’s wing briskly, as if you’d barely catch him if you didn’t speed down the hall with fervor. And when you reached his door, you only knocked twice before letting yourself in, not dissimilar to how you entered patient exam rooms.
“Nami’s out sick. My schedule is a mess— I don’t have time on the calendar to breathe— and I’m shuffling cases around, and it’s all at the very end of the week, so I—”
You didn’t even get your request out.
“Chopper can handle my imaging,” Law said. He was sitting back in his chair, the glow of his computer cast on his face. He even looked up from his work, turning all his attention to you. “Consider it done.”
He said it, and he meant it. His words were exactly face-value. No arguing. No remark about how you’re the only one who “gets it right,” just helpful and accommodating. You stared at him for a moment, wondering who exactly this man was and what did he do to demanding, obnoxious, and sarcastic Law.
“And you’re okay with that?” you poked, having already geared up for a fight.
Law shrugged.
“It isn’t permanent, right? It’ll be a good learning experience for him,” he said. He didn’t appear concerned in the slightest.
Meanwhile, you were getting things thrown at you left and right. You were, quite frankly, being overloaded far above your already stretched capacity. You weren’t the official lead, but you carried the weight of it as soon as what little leadership the department had abandoned ship.
These responsibilities fell on you as the one who stayed behind. And with Nami out and new studies popping up among everything else that was happening to the department, you needed to have something you could count on— something you could anticipate, something consistent.
You anticipated a fight.
“Sure,” you sputtered, unable to help how you were clearly thrown off. “Okay.”
Without anything else to say, you turned on your heel and left.
Sanji visited Le Grain de Café just about every weekday. He treated his staff well, remembering their orders and picking up a box of pastries every now and then. And this morning, Sanji had picked up one extra beverage and one extra pastry just for you.
His clinic always started a bit later than the crack of dawn when you typically arrived at clinic, and so when he dropped off his things at his office and took your treats down to you, you were already in the midst of chaos.
Imaging was typically a quiet place, but today, you had staff members and patients alike bustling around your corridor. Patients were piled up in your small waiting area at the mouth of the imaging hallway, and when Sanji entered your office, your bins were overflowing with imaging request papers.
You were just coming out of the exam room hallway, using the door that connected the hall directly to your office. You had wrapped cords around the back of your shoulders, juggling two probes in your hands as you went for the phone that was ringing nonstop on your desk.
You didn’t even notice him as you took the call.
“If he’s NPO, hold off on the oral— I’ll talk to Hogback, no— Give me a second, I need to call you back—”
And when you turned, you finally noticed Sanji holding a beverage in one hand and a doggie bag in the other.
“Rough morning?” he quipped. You visibly wilted.
“Don’t even get me started.” You leaned back against your desk, running a hand over your face and up to the stray flyaways that crowned your forehead.
Sanji approached, offering you the breakfast he curated.
“Please,” he said gently, “Eat. Keep your energy up.”
“I don’t know how much of that I have left in the tank.” You took the items from him graciously, but you couldn’t muster a friendly look to put on. You were deflated, exhausted. You brought the mystery beverage up to your hips to take a sip. You didn’t even have it in you to perk up. “Damn, that’s delicious…” You muttered, taking another sip.
Sanji laughed sweetly.
“Hopefully this’ll put a little gas back into your tank.” And the way he looked at you— with his little smile and the sugary gleam in his eye— was nothing short of adoration. “I remembered what you drank at dinner, and I took a wild guess about your taste.”
“Do you happen to have ten more of these?” You held the drink up almost like a little cheers. Your chin was tilted down as you were slowly losing the battle not to hang your head in defeat.
“Do you want ten more?” he asked, bowing his head a little to meet your eye.
“Oh, no, I was joking,” you clarified, picking your head up to muster a slight smile.
“Oh! Gotcha,” Sanji laughed, “Well, I don’t want to be in your way, but I’ll check up on you later today. Got it?” He slowly backed toward the door, his ever-charming smile on his ever-charming face.
You nodded, holding the beverage up toward him again.
“Thank you, Dr. Sanji,” you called.
He nodded politely toward you.
“Anytime,” he said before he left.
And for as nice a gesture as it was, Sanji only served to complicate your morning. Your tiny smile immediately fell as soon as he exited. You placed the drink and the pastry on your desk. As much as you wanted to indulge yourself, you didn’t have time.
You immediately returned to your work, zipping around to take patients, talk to family members about wait times, receive papers, and respond to messages. This was all not to mention that some of your machines were on the fritz today, and one had a broken mouse. And to compensate for the broken mouse, you brought the one from your desk computer into one of the exam rooms. So if you wanted to do anything on your computer, you needed to retrieve the mouse again. And you ended up going back and forth time and again to respond to the endless influx of chat messages—and God, did the way Sanji looked at you make you feel like the worst person alive.
He was handsome, cute, and oh so sweet. He thought of you this morning and seemed to know you well enough to take a shot in the dark to bring you something nice to drink.
But he didn’t get your jokes. Of course, he remembered what you ate at dinner because you never had an interaction outside of food. And the way he looked at you like you were the best thing since sliced bread— let’s be honest, you’d be a close second at best if Sanji had been presented with literal bread— made you sick.
Not because of him. Not because of the look itself, but because when he looked at you like that, you didn’t feel a goddamn thing.
You felt nothing for sweet, thoughtful Sanji, who had been politely asking you out every time you saw each other for years after being nothing but perfect. And now, as you went through the motions of taking another patient and running around with your head cut off, the expensive pastry from that really nice French bakery sat on your desk—a reminder.
But the next person to storm through your door certainly bore many reminders and zero French pastries.
Hogback was already shouting your name into your empty office when you emerged from your hallway. His already pale skin had turned a deep shade of red. His forehead was greasy, and little strands of hair stuck to it.
“Where have you been?” Hogback demanded, stepping forward to approach you as you continued with your tasks. He followed you around like a ghoul as you tried your hardest to carry on. “I just had a patient wait well over an hour for imaging.”
“I’ve been with your patients all morning—”
“You’ve been a bottleneck all week.” Hogback stopped in front of you, pointing a finger, “I’ve seen patients one by one as they come back to me, stagnated. I don’t have time to sit around all day because you don’t have control over your department.”
“We’ve had call-outs and—”
“Shhh— Shut it— I don’t want to hear excuses!” Hogback short-circuited with entitled rage. “Is this what you do?” He continued to jab a finger at you. “Do you just rearrange the schedule and bump patients and just— What? Cross your fingers and hope for the best? This is the North Blue University Medical Center, for Christ’s sake! Either you do your job or we rethink your position here!”
“Doctor Hogback—”
“I will not have my patients pushed back because you decide to prioritize Trafalgar’s patients over mine.” Hogback stepped back, lamenting and groaning to himself as he ran a hand under his glasses and up to his nearly balding head. “Ugh,” he whined, “This is exactly why I much preferred Mr. Wapol. I can’t deal with young women… Falling for colleagues, playing favorites… It’s a miracle anything gets done around here.”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to imply here, but I haven’t taken a single one of Dr. Trafalgar’s patients since Wednesday,” you gritted. “I haven’t bumped any of your patients. I’ve been with your patients exclusively all day.”
Hogback stared at you darkly, a smiling sneer contorting his face bitterly.
“There it is,” he hissed, “There’s that attitude I’ve been hearing whispers about.”
He lingered for a moment longer before turning and making for the door.
“Don’t get sloppy just because you’re rushing!” he called. “I’ll send each and every patient back!”
***
You weren’t too surprised when you were done late. The sun had already set, and it was well into the evening. You were more than sure you would be hearing about this during the next QC meeting if Saturn didn’t personally call you down to his office first.
The automatic lights in your office had gone off. Your computer screen dimmed, having taken you back to the obnoxiously blue NBUMC lockscreen. You sat at your desk, head down and buried in your arms.
Your badge sat on your desk somewhere near your elbow. The front of your reel fell off sometime throughout the day, from how many times you tapped in and out of things. You suspected that a part of it must’ve broken when it hit the ground, because you couldn’t get it to fit back together.
Your equipment cart was situated directly next to your desk. Everything held together until the very last patient, before your machinery gave up on you and would no longer connect to the server. That was about the moment you admitted defeat, finally taking a moment to finally rest.
You still had things to do. You had tasks to wrap up before clinics began again the next day. And even the weekend couldn’t save you much, because you had to figure out a way to get all your ducks in a row before everything got too out of hand.
But even though you knew you needed to do it, after the day you’d just had, you couldn’t bring yourself to the task.
You vaguely heard the door open and shut behind you, but you didn’t even have the energy to pick your head up to turn around. The lights automatically turned on. You heard the clicking of the button to turn the intensity down to a comfortable dimness.
A chair rattled from one of the empty desks that was never used, and the wheels clattered until it stopped next to you. The seat creaked slightly with pressure. You felt a sleeve near your arm.
And then, the room returned to stillness.
“I’m fine,” you muttered.
And for a moment, you didn’t hear an answer.
“I know you are,” Law drawled in the amused way he did when he didn’t believe you. You didn’t answer once again. You didn’t have anything to say or the brain power to put into a snappy comeback.
The two of you sat for a moment; you with your head cradled in your arms and Law sitting with his arm resting on the side of your desk. It was quieter without the whirring of the machines and the footsteps upstairs.
It was late.
You heard the seat next to you shift, and just before Law stood, you caught his sleeve in your hand. You didn’t pick your head up. You didn’t look at him. You just clutched the stiff fabric of his coat. And slowly, Law settled back into his seat.
“I know you’re not my friend,” you whispered, barely able to muster even bitterness. You played with the fabric between your fingers. It was a thicker fabric than you expected. You could feel Law’s forearm underneath and the slight heat that radiated from him.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asked. His voice was low and soft in comparison to the quiet, eerie vastness of the hospital that surrounded you. You didn’t move to let him go.
“I didn’t think you’d mind,” you murmured, “‘Cause you sleep in the break room.”
“I thought we came to the consensus that the exam chair was comfiest.”
You shifted, letting your eye poke out from above your folded elbow. And for the first time that day, you actually smiled.
“I’ve slept in one of the exam chairs before.” You turned your head to lay your ear on your left bicep. Everything else shifted with your movement. Your right hand slid up to your left elbow. The fingers of your left hand continued to explore the fabric of Law’s sleeve. You weren’t hiding anymore so much as lying lazily. “With how the angle reclines, you wouldn’t think it’s comfortable, but I knocked out in that thing quick.”
Law shifted in his seat, leaning more onto the desk.
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Hey, don’t knock it until you try it.”
And it was in that moment that you realized you were smiling. Law must’ve also noticed the way the corners of his lips twitched upward, because silence overtook your office again. You stopped moving your fingers, just keeping a spot of his sleeve between your fingers.
You felt awkward and hyperaware. You took the silence personally, wondering if you should say anything, and if you were to speak, what about?
You shifted your head again, tucking your face back into your arms just slightly.
“You should go home,” Law spoke. He leaned his head back against the support of his chair. “You’ve been here long enough.”
“I don’t want to go home yet,” you replied, eyes cast somewhere random in the room. Your grip around his sleeve curled a little tighter.
And for a second, things were quiet again.
“Because being here makes you feel more in control of things,” he said, his voice devoid of an accusation. Instead, he spoke with a knowing familiarity.
Even after the work day, you could still smell his cologne. It was a clean scent, sharp and masculine without being overpowering. He smelled like a sleek penthouse apartment with leather couches and exactly one throw pillow. A fancy new car. Sterile gloves. A designer aftershave. Ethanol.
Familiar. Just like Penguin and Shachi.
Safe.
“You…” he hesitated, hanging onto the one syllable for far too long, “Don’t have to put on a brave face,” he opted.
You sat up, although your arms didn’t move far from where you had them. You cracked somewhat of a smile for the second time that night.
“Are you telling me I can cry?” you quipped half-heartedly. And you could tell that Law didn’t see it as a joke, and perhaps it wasn’t.
“I’m surprised you’ve held out this long,” he admitted quietly.
You snorted, bouncing your eyebrows at the thought.
“I won’t,” you asserted like a vow, “Especially not in front of you. Wouldn’t want to give you the satisfaction.” Your words were more bitter than you intended. But if Law was offended, he didn’t show it.
“That’s not something I would ever take satisfaction in,” he said. Gentle. Soft.
And he held your gaze, and it was almost like his warm golden eyes melted everything you had ever worried about off of you. Like returning home after braving a blizzard. Like finding shelter after getting caught in a rainstorm.
You tore your stare away, casting your eyes down.
“What made you come here?” you asked.
“I had a feeling you were still here,” he answered. Your phone sat on the corner of the desk, face up between the two of you. It flashed on to notify you of a news story before turning dim again. “I saw the schedule for today.”
You took in a breath, your gaze daring to flicker back up at him.
“What are you doing here?” You whispered, almost as if you were afraid of the answer. He had asked you the same thing not too long ago during one of your last fights before he went quiet.
Absent. Missing.
And something flickered across Law’s eyes, as if he had an answer for you immediately but didn’t know how to say it. Or perhaps he didn’t want to say it in the same way you weren’t sure if you wanted to hear it.
He tentatively opened his mouth. You could see the words run over in his head as he considered which ones to pick.
Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
Your phone rang loudly, the screen flashing and the device buzzing. You typically didn’t have any noise settings on, but that day, you had turned the ringer on so you could be reached during clinic if needed. The caller ID lit up your phone. In bold, it read, “Sanji Vinsmoke, NBUMC.”
When you read it, you instinctively glanced toward Law. His eyes were glued to the screen, reading the name with a neutral expression.
Your hand shot from Law’s arm to your phone to silence it, pressing the buttons on the side. The ringing ceased, but Sanji’s name still overtook the display.
When you turned your attention back to Law, he was unreadable once more. He didn’t appear angry or much of anything, in fact. But it was undeniable that the interruption had snapped a wall back up between the two of you.
And when he told you, “I shouldn’t keep you,” he did so without sharpness. Then, he was gone. He slipped out of your office like he had never been there at all. And the moment he left— the moment you were alone and dragging yourself to your car— felt heavier than your entire day of work.
Because when he looked at you, it was like he saw right through you. Because every sarcastic jab and quip was an acknowledgement of your wit. And while Trafalgar Law would never in a million years bring you gourmet coffee or hand-select a flight of seafood, he could still sit across from you and understand you before you even muttered a word.
Because Trafalgar Law understands your jokes.
Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.
Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI
I'm happy to add people to the tag list, but be warned, any blog that requests to be added and has not interacted with the series will be blocked! (For your sheer audacity!!) Minors are DNI and will not be added to the tag list, so please have an age in your bio :)
Notes: I combined chapters 6 and 7 (or at least what was written of it) into this massive chapter. Therefore, I no longer have content for chapter 7 and I've got to keep y'all CRAZY FOLK fended off for a bit. Next chapter drops at 200 notes that has to give me enough time right?... right?
NOT RIGHT NOW BABE (this has been in my drafts for sooooo long!!)
sometimes you think about how long he must have been in love with you before anything ever happened. you don’t bring it up much, mostly because he still gets a little tense when you do. but to this day, the memory of wanting you so badly while saying nothing still makes his chest tighten terribly. although he won’t admit it outright, he never actually has, you know that even now, he was so obvious. how could he not be when every single time you turned your head, without fail, he would be caught already watching you.
credit wasn’t something you gave easily, but he’d earned it. law buried what he felt with this obsessive kind of care, his affection was a secret that had to be hidden in the folds of his coat or tucked between the pages of a logbook. he decided somewhere early on that you weren’t meant to know, and so he made sure you wouldn’t unless you were watching with intention. he was mostly polite, sometimes even a little cold, always respectful, never too much of anything. he never lingered when you walked past, never touched you if he could help it. his elbows always bent at exact angles when seated beside you. when standing, his hands found the same spot in his coat pockets, knuckles stiff, thumb pressing deep into the seam where fabric met lining. the restraint was constant. he held it in his spine, his wrists, the way he bit the inside of his cheek when you leaned over him at the map table. it was almost ridiculous how hard he worked to stay neutral.
paying close attention was the only thing that made you finally figure it out, seemingly nobody else did but you. his eyes would flicker to your mouth whenever you spoke, too brief to be caught by anyone who wasn’t looking for it. and when you’d stop talking, he’d let the silence hang instead of brushing past it. the most obvious part of all was how your opinions got more weight in decisions than they should have, how your scrapes got seen before anyone else’s, even when you said you were fine. this was not commented on, and that almost confirmed it for you. only bepo noticed. he’d never say it, but the way he looked between the two of you when law gave you orders said enough. if it was obvious, someone would’ve joked or teased or questioned but no one did. that meant they either didn’t notice, or they were too unsure to bring it up, or they must’ve figured it was protocol or convenience or maybe just seniority. but it was favoritism. gentle, careful favoritism that he swore he didn’t show, expect for when he’d assign you the lightest duties during hard missions. he tormented himself for exactly four years by treating his affection as something shameful that had to be folded up and put away somewhere you could never find it.
over time, he stopped standing too close in tight quarters because it got harder for him to pretend. his body would lean before his mind caught it, and he’d yank himself back just a little too late. you felt his voice change slightly in tone when he said your name, a subtle and softer sound he only reserved for you. he told you that you were imagining it, said it sounded the same no matter who he was talking to. “you’re hearing things,” he said once, eyes already looking away before you could answer.
law truly believed his courtroom composure could erase every stray glance, but you recognized his secret devotion long before his mouth ever tasted yours. inside his meticulous skull those kisses had played on an endless reel, at least a hundred rehearsals deep. he endured seasons convinced he could quarantine that sweet affection forever, scrubbing any pink warmth from his voice whenever you wandered close. you still wonder which lonely future would have unfolded if your mouth had not moved first to claim what already belonged to you. if you hadn’t touched him, kissed him, pulled that devotion out of the dark and told him he could give it to you, because he really might have never done it. he would’ve spent years pretending he didn’t still think about you before falling asleep.
and sometimes, you look at him in moments like this, half-dressed and muttering to himself, hair slightly flattened on one side from where he dozed off before this dumb obsession woke him, squinting at an auction timer like the fate of humanity depends on whether or not he secures a limited edition whitebeard figurine, and you really do wonder how you ended up with the biggest nerd in the suboceanic hemisphere. what a geek, hunched over that ugly knockoff den-den mushi-laptop hybrid he built himself because nothing on the market met his “operational standards.” the glow of the screen reflects off his earrings and the slope of his nose, casting that same weird blue tone across his bare chest clicking way too aggressively for someone who’s supposed to be a genius.
and still somehow, you’re completely, pathetically in love with him. you’ll always love him for how serious he was about hiding his big fat crush on you. for how sincere he was, even when he thought he had no chance. that was before you knew how his seriousness melted into clingy tenderness meant only for his pretty girl. and how bad his taste in collectibles actually was. but it’s during nights like these that you start to think maybe you should’ve left him to suffer in his yearning forever.
you’re lying on your back right in the center of his bed, legs stretched all the way out, hips tilted to one side so the dip of your waist curves into the mattress. your arms are folded under your chest and your elbows push into the silk sheets. you’ve been staring at him, your captain, with your head tilted back against the pillows, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted just enough to show how bored you are.
citrus traces float from his favorite hand balm, the little tin you procured in a port he despised for its cramped docks and rude traders. the bed’s still warm from the time he spent beside you earlier, when his hands were all over you and his voice was tired but affectionate. but now he’s back at the desk, head bowed, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, and you can see how tight his shoulders are from where you’re laying. his forearms are tanned and covered in those veins you adore tracing with tongue when permission exists. he hasn’t said anything in maybe forty minutes. he’s been locked in, pulling up tabs, scrolling through listings, flipping between forums and those grim old marine archives.
you catch him zooming in on the arm joint of a ten-inch figure and mumbling something about joint calibration. “you can tell by the stress lines on the coat…”
your hips tilt slightly causing the silk robe you put on to descend, exposing the gentle ridge of sternum and the upper swell of both breasts. bare thighs extend toward the footboard, only one of your knees bent outward, granting an unobstructed corridor of soft skin beneath the loosened fold. your fingers pinch a corner of fabric, letting it fall so the right lapel hangs lower than the left, inviting examination from any attentive observer. your voice remains a breath above silence when you murmur traf?, testing whether his concentration will fracture beneath this deliberate temptation. he keeps staring at that improvised laptop, yet every sensory receptor in his disciplined frame registers your proximity and the thermal bloom against his sheets. strategy dictates restraint, so you persist wordlessly, presenting a silhouette that glints under the console glow, trusting tactile intuition to lure him. nothing shields the smooth plane of your abdomen, but he still won’t even look at you?
“not right now, babe,” he mumbles absently. “i swear i’m almost done.”
“you said that twelve minutes ago.”
“the bid closes in five.”
“it was five six minutes ago.”
“it extended. someone else placed a last-minute offer.”
you shift your gaze toward that glowing monitor, lashes heavy with deliberate disdain, lips curving into that lazy warning he’s learned to recognize. words spill softly, deceptively gentle in tone, “someone else is offering higher credits on that whitebeard figurine?” he pivots on his stool, his amber orbs narrowing under low lashes before settling on your contour. one finger raises his spectacles without rushing, fingertips grazing the bridge of his nose, mouth pressed into a firm line resisting any retort.
“it’s not just any whitebeard figurine,” he says. “it’s the 20th anniversary box release. pre-war. sculpted from ooda’s early model sheets. look at the spine, right here — see the tilt on the bisento? there were no reissues. not in any region. this one’s never even touched a shelf.”
he sounds breathless. he shifts again, eyes drifting along your bare limbs and tracing the line of your chest exposed by fallen silk. his rigid posture softens imperceptibly, admitting devotion he still feigns to suppress whenever your presence beckons him away from duty. momentary silence settles, punctuated only by low hum of auxiliary engines and heartbeat reverberating beneath your bare skin. he loves you, but occasionally he loves pretending he’s not into you even more.
with his attention held for more than three seconds, you throw yourself down into the center of the bed again, this time with just enough effort behind the movement to make the mattress shift under you with a weighted, theatrical sound. your back arches slightly with the impact, and the silk of your robe slides farther down your chest, your nipples stiffen under the change in position, and you know he has to have noticed it. there is no angle from which he could possibly miss what you’re offering him now. you let your chest rise with an intentionally long inhale, your arms slack above the pillows, hair spread around your face, one leg bent just slightly to let the robe fall open further over your thigh. you wait one second, two more, then three.
“oh my god,” there’s genuine awe in his voice, “the seller just confirmed the signature. it’s real.”
wow. you hiss without raising your head from the pillow, “what, whitebeard signed it himself from the afterlife?”
he doesn’t answer you or even pretend to have heard you. his elbows are locked tight to his ribs now, body pitched forward into the glow of his desk, hands typing too fast to be entirely rational. you’re not sure if he’s more invested in the bid or in pretending to ignore you, but either way, it’s insulting. finally, without turning, he mutters something again. “the sculptor,” he says, “the sculptor signed it. this is a museum-grade item.”
you stare at the ceiling long enough that your vision unfocuses, the dim lights from the control panels near the door tinting the shadows across the upper wall in gentle amber and deepened navy. you drag a hand slowly across your face, your palm wide, starting at your brow and pulling all the way down, across the slope of your nose and over your parted mouth. you want him pressed down on top of you, there’s a pulse between your thighs that’s getting harder to ignore, but it’s matched by how pissed off you are that he’s so good at this. he’s enjoying this entirely. he wants you frustrated. he likes watching you get irritated and hot and flushed and fed up while he sits, serene, putting on a perfect performance of detachment. it’s the same twisted, self-hating pleasure he lived off of before he had you, except now he gets to be on the other side.
step one of the five-step grieving process of postponed sexual gratification from your surgeon pirate boyfriend: bargaining.
“hey,” you say, “if you press buy now, i’ll let you do anything to me for the rest of the night.”
you don’t blink when you say it just to see what he does. you want to know how far he’ll push this ascetic monk bit before he loses the upper hand. he clicks something and nods. “already bid. can’t back out now.”
“you’re gonna lose it.” you threaten.
“i’m not.”
you don't even sigh when you walk over to him, because you know he’s waiting for it. he should be groveling by now, you’ve done your part and he hasn’t even kissed you once. he’s leaned in closer to the screen, arguing again. you tilt your head, glance over his shoulder, and see the username he’s replying to.
“you’re fighting a man named figfan_88,” you say, slowly.
“he’s objectively wrong,” law murmurs, he won’t even turn. “he said whitebeard’s bisento was re-sculpted for the 2012 release. i’m correcting the record.”
“by writing a thesis?”
he keeps doing what he’s doing because he has no off-switch. no gauge for balance, or sense of proportion when it comes to his own compulsions. his brain has latched onto this fixation like it always does, and the fact that you’ve been half-naked on his bed for twenty-three minutes means exactly nothing when a stranger on the internet has misdated a weapon sculpt on a forum thread from a decade ago. he doesn’t even consider the possibility that you might be bothered.
you stare at the back of his beautiful, stupid head, you drag your fingers through the soft, uneven locks in hopes of activating a different quadrant of his cursedly capable brain, something nonacademic, something that would snap him out of this absurd little ebay fugue state, but all you receive is more stubborn key clacks and the sound of his molars working at the inside of his lip.
you blink down at the bare column of his neck, then lean closer, dragging your words low across the shell of his ear. “don’t you ever wonder why your dick is so neglected?”
he exhales through his nose, but still doesn’t look at you, fingers twitching on the keys.
“when all you do is nerdy stuff like this?” you ask, slowly. his response to that is, “so sit on it and give it some lovin’. i’m right here.”
your mouth parts. “excuse me?”
he finally turns to look at you, pupils already blown, but you doubt it’s from arousal. more likely the adrenaline of pretending he still has the upper hand. his eyes drop, unapologetic, to the swell of your chest.
“i said,” he starts, enunciating now, “maybe if you put those pretty thighs to work, i’d stop typing.”
your breath hitches, but your glare deepens “you’re disgusting.”
“you’re stunning,” he counters, eyes tracking the slip of your robe. “i’m suffering. can’t you let me win this one last bid in peace?” you scoff and cross your arms. “five more minutes,” he pleads, lifting a hand, “just five. and then i’m all yours. ruin me. crush me. tie me up. i’ll even delete the forum app, i swear.” and then he stretches, leans back in his chair, and manspreads on purpose, just to be unbearable. there’s an invitation somewhere in the gesture, but it’s the kind that doubles as a challenge. he’s not going to beg or stop you if you climb into his lap and ruin his little hobby night.
“fine. keep ignoring me. but if i get myself off before you touch me, i swear i won’t let you watch.”
“you’re so sexy when you threaten me,” he grins, turning back to the screen, completely unbothered. you huff, your hips sway when you turn, and you make sure he notices. he watches you walk all the way back to the bed, and his grin fades into something lazier. his eyes drop to your ass with a slow, appreciative drag. he hated to see you go but watching you leave might’ve been better.
you try lying flat this time, try letting your thighs fall open, try folding the pillow under your hips and sinking into it in hope that it’ll ease something. the sheets are warm, slippery, clinging to your skin, and every time you breathe too deep you feel that tight, dull ache between your legs. you swallow, bite your bottom lip, try to ignore the fact that your body’s basically begging. and still, nothing. “you’re really just gonna sit there while i suffer?”
“you’re not suffering. you’re being dramatic.”
“i’m sweating!”
“turn the fan on.”
“i’m restless.”
“you have hands.” he continues, “and you’ve barely moved. unless rolling around with your ass out counts as cardio.”
you shoot a glare over the blankets. “what are you even doing now?”
“tracking the bid history. figuring out if this guy’s serious or just driving the price up for fun.” the way he’s speaking makes it worse.
your thighs squeeze together again. “you know, i think you’re going through something,” you murmur, eyes on the ceiling now. “when we started this, you used to be on me constantly. you barely let me leave your bed without dragging me back. i miss being touched without asking for it.” your brows pinch. you almost stop there, but don’t. “i miss feeling wanted. by you.”
“you are wanted,” he confirms, “very badly. you’re just also being incredibly annoying.”
you ignore that, “and don’t say it’s just a busy night,” you add. “you get like this sometimes. you’ll have a week where you’re completely insatiable, and then you shift into this cold little slump where i have to throw myself around to get you to do anything.”
“you’re exaggerating.” you turn your head toward him. “am i?”
“you think i’m ignoring you?” he asks, sounding almost amused. your mouth opens but no sound comes out. “besides,” he adds, “you always want it more when i act uninterested. it’s psychological. i’m doing you a favor.”
“sorry. psychological?”
“mhmm.”
“no, repeat it. out loud. and slowly, so you can hear how stupid you sound.”
he shrugs. “acting uninterested makes you want it more. it triggers a heightened sense of pursuit. textbook reward conditioning.”
“what textbook.”
he clicks back to the auction window and mutters, “any of them.” you scramble up on your elbows, glare at the outline of his jaw in the low blue light. “you think withholding attention is rewarding to me?” you roll your eyes so hard it physically hurts. “you’re not a psychologist.”
“not officially.”
“you’re a surgeon. you’re not even qualified to talk about dopamine.”
“actually, i am. neurotransmitters are part of the—”
“shut up.”
he laughs, cocky and deeply fond. he’s smiling now, the corners of his mouth turned up in that way he always gets when he knows he’s winning but doesn’t want to gloat too hard “do you want me to be obsessed with you again?” he asks gently, “because i can do that. i’m adaptable. and very responsive to need.”
you sniff and pull the blanket over your shoulder like it might shield you from the idiocy radiating across the room. “you’re lucky you’re hot.”
“i know.”
his fingers tap once more against the trackpad, then pause. silence settles. you can hear the computer fan humming and the soft sound of the floorboard creaking when he shifts. he tilts his head just slightly, adjusting his glasses without looking up from the screen. you hate how easy it is for him to smile at his own arrogance. “you don’t need to worry about a thing,” he says. “you’ll get exactly what you want in the end. i just want to see how long you can hold out without begging.”
you pretend not to hear him speak, “you’re gonna be outbid by some forty-year-old war criminal with a display case and no girlfriend.”
he stands suddenly and moves toward the dresser and grabs the auction book he’s marked up over and over again. pages rustle too fast for it to be useful, but he’s flipping through it anyway, about to prove a point that hasn’t been made yet. “i know i saw it listed before,” he says to no one in particular. “it was on page thirty-three, bottom right, had the wrong serial label—” he disappears into the bathroom with the book still in hand and you hear the faucet turn on. the water slaps hard against the basin, he’s only in there to think.
you move fast, knowing he won’t stay distracted for long. rolling off the bed, dropping onto the floor without a sound, you crawl under the desk and grip the base of the keyboard, pulling it toward you with even movements. the cord of it clacks once when it hits the frame of the bed. you wince, shoving it far beneath, hidden behind a stack of unopened mail. wiping your hands on your thighs, you return to the bed, lounging in the same position you once were.
he walks out moments later, towel slung over his shoulder. his glasses fog slightly when he pushes them up. he’s still mumbling about the bid timer. he walks straight to the desk and sits. he reaches for the keyboard, then pauses.
“…where the hell is my—?”
“hmm?”
“my keyboard. it was right here.”
“was it?”
he narrows his eyes and frowns, already looking under books, behind the monitor. “don’t play with me.”
you tilt your head slowly. “maybe it got tired of your typing and ran away.”
“did you take it?”
“take what?”
“my keyboard.”
“why would i take your keyboard?”
“because you’re—” he stops talking, stands still for a moment. “you’re so petty.”
you shrug without breaking eye contact. “if it mattered that much to you, you wouldn’t have left it unguarded.”
he pushes back from the desk in one smooth movement and crosses the room with zero hesitation. he crouches at the edge of the bed, reaching out for your ankle, his hand closes around it easily. “negotiate,” he says.
“i don’t know where it is.”
“you’re a liar.”
“so make me tell the truth.”
he shifts onto the mattress in a steady motion. both of his hands slide over your hips, and the silk top gets pressed aside without ceremony. his voice stays low. you raise an eyebrow, “you’ve got about six minutes before bidding closes. are you really gonna waste it arguing with me?”
“i’m not wasting it. i’m winning.”
“oh, so this is a competition now?”
“it’s always a competition. you just don’t admit it because i’m better at it.”
suddenly, he breathes out a laugh, he can’t believe you’re doing this to him during a limited-time listing. he glances back at the desk briefly, then looks at you again.
“you know i’m gonna find it eventually.”
“i know. but you’ll be too late.”
you stay laid back, elbow behind you, silk slipping again just slightly with your shift. “you want the keyboard,” you say, “fine. i’ll trade.”
his eyes flick up your thigh but land back on your face. “what do you want?”
you hold up your fingers one by one, “i want three kisses. then i want you to come to bed, with no laptop, and i want your mouth on me until i forget what time it is.”
he tilts his head slightly, “that’s it?”
you squint, “that’s enough.”
“you’re giving me the keyboard for something i already planned on doing.”
you arch a brow, “you were going to bury your face in me tonight out of the goodness of your heart?”
he leans forward slowly, mouth stopping at your knee. he kisses there once, open-mouthed, nothing sweet about it. “i was gonna do it just to shut you up,” he says. “but now i’ve got a reason.”
you shove at his shoulder with your foot. he grabs your ankle again, firmer this time, drags your leg until your knee bends and you’re pulled toward the edge of the mattress. your breath catches slightly. you try to hide it, but he notices.
“okay,” he says, looking up at you again. “three kisses. and i eat you out until you forget your own name.”
“not what i said.”
“no,” he shrugs, standing to full height and pressing his knee into the bed, “but it’s what you meant.”
his hands move to your hips. pushes the silk up with a kind of calm that makes you burn faster. he leans down again, kissing the inside of your thigh once. then again higher. then pulls back.
“i’ll throw in something extra,” he says, voice low now, mouth way too close. “but i get to choose when the third kiss happens. and where.”
you swallow once. look up at him, biting back a smile. “deal.”
“good. now give me the keyboard,” he says.
“under the bed,” you say, “behind the stack of mail you keep ignoring.”
he leans over, arm stretching beneath the frame. he pulls it out by the cord, holding it in the air like a trophy.
his attention doesn’t back to the desk. instead, he sets the keyboard on the floor without looking, stepping forward until his knees are pressed against the mattress. one hand settles just above your knee, thumb grazing the soft skin there, the other sliding up your thigh without hurry. you shift against the sheets when his palm reaches the lace, brushing the edge before pushing under it.
his fingers are warm, knuckles bending until the tips meet you in slow, deliberate circles. your breath hitches the moment he starts, the pace unchanging, every movement dragging too much focus out of you.
“you’ve got that auction,” you say, voice catching but still aimed to needle him. “don’t you need to—”
“there’s an intermission,” he says, almost bored, but the smallest upward curl at the corner of his mouth betrays him. “you gonna try and distract me from my own deal?”
“i’m trying to keep you from missing it.”
his circles tighten, just a fraction, enough to force a stifled breath from you. “i already told you. intermission.”
“feels… longer than six minutes.”
“stop counting,” he says, not even a twitch in his wrist. “you’re bad at it.”
your fingers curl into the sheets, silk sliding against your skin with each subtle shift of your hips. he notices, he notices everything, and instead of speeding up, he keeps the exact same rhythm, watching every flicker across your face.
“you could just…” you start, trailing off when he presses harder for a second, “go back to your desk.”
“and let you think you’ve won? not happening.”
you want to argue, but it’s too much effort with the way his hand moves so measured, and patient, owning every reaction without rushing a thing.
“embarrassed?” he asks suddenly, still fixed on you.
you breathe out hard through your nose, eyes closing briefly. “shut up.”
he leans in, his mouth just over your ear. “too good to stop, though.”
you don’t answer, and that’s enough for him.
his circles shift lower, pressing between every pass, spreading the slick he finds there without a word. the edge of the lace drags faintly across your thigh with each movement, his fingers unhurried but heavier now. he watches your mouth part when he dips just barely inside before sliding back up, tracing you in a way that makes your stomach clench.
“that’s better,” he murmurs, tone warmer now, almost coaxing. “feels good when you stop trying to talk over it, doesn’t it?”
your hips lift a little, not even on purpose, but his hand is there immediately, palm firm against your lower belly to keep you still. “don’t,” he says, soft but certain. “let me do it for you.”
he pushes two fingers inside slowly, his thumb finding your clit again, circling with that same steady rhythm while his other hand stays planted over your stomach. the stretch makes you gasp, your legs shifting open more, and he leans in, resting his forehead against yours briefly.
“that’s it. open up for me,” he says, voice low, steady, almost too intimate in the quiet of the room. “want you to feel all of me.”
you clutch at the sheets near his hips, breath catching each time his thumb glides over the same sensitive spot, every push of his fingers angled just right. his mouth brushes your temple, kissing there without pulling away from what his hand is doing.
your body jerks when it tips over, a rush of heat pulling tight through your stomach before it snaps, and there’s nothing you can do to slow it. his fingers stay buried inside you, steady through the pulse of it, coaxing more with each press until it’s spilling out against his hand, seeping past his knuckles and dripping onto the inside of your thigh. he catches it with the slow curl of his fingers, pushing it back into you while his thumb keeps circling.
your hands go for him without thinking, first gripping his bicep, feeling the hard flex beneath your palms, then sliding up over the ink along his arm until you’re pressing against the solid heat of his chest. you can feel his heart pounding harder now, the soft fabric of his shirt catching under your fingertips as you drag them over his pecs.
“don’t look away,” you manage.
his jaw tenses, eyes darting up for a second before breaking off to focus on your stomach instead. “don’t tell me what to do.”
you laugh once, too breathless to make it sharp. “you’re scared.”
“of what?” his thumb slows, just slightly, enough to make you twitch in frustration.
“me.”
he finally looks up, but only for a moment, your face is too open, too warm, and he shakes his head once before ducking down to kiss along your collarbone. “you talk too much,” he mutters against your skin.
you try to reply, but the next press of his fingers steals your voice, your hips tilting toward him despite the hand on your belly keeping you pinned.
“see?” he says, breath warm against your chest. “quiet now.”
“only ’cause—” you cut yourself off with a sharp inhale when his thumb hits that same spot again, “—you’re making it impossible.”
he hums low, almost pleased, mouth brushing up your neck before stopping at your jaw. “good. don’t want you thinking about anything else.”
your nails press harder into his chest, the thin cotton bunching under your grip, and for a second he closes his eyes like he’s collecting himself before opening them again, still not holding your gaze for long.
“you’re so damn much,” he says quietly, the words not meant to be cruel, his tone too full for that.
“you love it,” you breathe.
he kisses the corner of your mouth without answering, his hand still working you through every last wave until you’re trembling against him. his palm finally lifts from your stomach, the absence making your skin feel colder for half a second before that same hand hooks under your thigh and hikes it high over his hip. the change in angle drags him deeper instantly, his knuckles pressing harder into you with every curl, the heel of his hand hitting the tender spot just above your clit.
you catch sight of his tattoos when he shifts, D and E stamped across the two fingers buried inside you, the thick, deliberate strokes of the letters flexing every time he pushes in and draws out. A sits along the curve of his thumb, circling and pressing where you’re already raw, lazy but unrelenting. T rests against the edge of your thigh now, the base of that finger warm where it braces you open against him. H drags faintly along your inner thigh with every slow rock of his hand.
“mm—” your chest jumps with the deeper push, breath stuttering even though he’s nowhere near rough.
“better?” he asks, his voice low but with a glint in it, like he already knows the answer.
“you— you know it is.”
“say it, then.”
he watches your chest jump with every push, the motion small but enough to make him smirk against your neck. “not even going fast,” he murmurs, the words dragging low from his throat. “and you’re already shaking.”
“you’re…” you start, but it turns into a soft gasp when the A and T bear down together for a second, making your thigh tense where it’s hooked over him.
“what?” he asks, his thumb slowing just enough to make you ache for it.
“you’re doing it on purpose.”
“of course i am.” his hand under your thigh tightens, pulling you closer so his chest brushes yours with each roll of his wrist. “why wouldn’t i?”
his head tilts, eyes flicking over to the monitor across the room when the alert chimes. you barely notice it until he exhales sharply through his nose, muttering, “two minutes.”
you give a breathless laugh, still clinging to his shirt. “guess you should go—”
“not a chance,” he cuts in, hand under your thigh pulling you closer until your hips are flush to the heel of his palm. his fingers curl harder inside you, the pads dragging along the spot that makes your stomach twist. “just means i have to make you finish faster.”
“you’re—” your voice cracks when his thumb tightens over your clit, circling with quick, practiced precision, “—you’re insane.”
“and you’re close,” he says, eyes locked on your face now like he’s measuring every second. “don’t fight it, just give it to me.”
your leg over his hip trembles when he drives in again, not rough but deep enough that your chest jumps with the force of it. the T and H are pressed right over the most sensitive part of you now, moving fast enough to pull broken sounds out of your throat without pause.
“c’mon,” he urges, the edge of urgency in his voice now matching the speed of his hand. “minute and a half.”
you try to say something back, maybe push at his shoulder, but your nails only curl tighter into him when the pressure tips hard, the build in your stomach snapping so fast it feels like falling.
“there,” he breathes, not slowing until your hips jerk against him, until your thigh squeezes hard around his waist. “that’s it. perfect.”
he pulls his hand free only when your legs go slack, the wet on his fingers catching the light before he wipes them slow along the hem of your shirt. then, finally, he presses a kiss to your temple.
“still got a minute to spare,” he says, already smirking as he stands to go back to the desk. so sated, you barely even register the pass of the five minutes before he’s crawling back into bed.
“did you win?” you inquire as he settles over you.
“yeah.”
“yeah? how much, trafalgar.” he laughs under his breath. “market price.” you push at his chest. “law—”
“okay, okay. it was… thirteen million.” you go silent. he stares at you, expression unreadable, completely unaffected. “…what currency?”
“not beli.”
your jaw tightens. “…was it real currency?”
law smiles against your neck. “real enough that it shipped in a fireproof crate.”
you stare at the ceiling for a full thirty seconds. he kisses your jaw again. trails one lazy hand down your thigh. “you’ll forgive me,” he says softly.
Umm hello,I'm new 2 ur page and wanted to ask if it's okay to req a fic of Sanji x Reader who is Brooks old crew mate and she's a ghost but can be touched and stuff,and she plays music with brook and loves to eat just like Luffy even though she's a ghost?? Okay tyyyyy❤️
゛The Ghosts Feast ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆
ˎˊ˗ Sanji x Reader
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ Words: 8,644
➜ Warnings:Loss, long term loneliness, fem reader.
The old man’s words were a familiar melody, a mournful song you’d heard countless times. The tune was different now, a lively sea shanty he was playing on the violin, but the underlying sorrow remained the same. You watched him from your usual spot, a translucent form perched on the railing of the Thousand Sunny, your gaze fixed on the skeleton who was once your beloved friend, Brook.
He never knew you were there, not really. How could he? It had been decades since he last saw your face, since you and the rest of the crew of the Rumbar Pirates had stood together on the deck of the old ship, a ship that now rested at the bottom of the ocean. You had promised to see him again on the other side, but you never did. You couldn’t bring yourself to leave him alone.
It wasn’t always easy. Being a ghost wasn’t all floating through walls and making things fly. The simple act of touching something, of exerting your will upon the physical world, took every ounce of strength you had. A gentle tap on the shoulder to get his attention felt like lifting a boulder. Yet, you managed. You had to.
You were his silent guardian, his unseen sister. You’d been there when he was a soul lost at sea, when he finally found his body, and when he was alone for fifty years. You whispered warnings of danger that he mistook for a sudden gut feeling. You guided his hand in battles, a gentle pull on his arm that he would later attribute to a stroke of luck. Your connection to him was a bond that even death couldn't sever. And as you watched him now, laughing with his new crew, a warmth spread through your ethereal form. You knew your vigil was not in vain. You would stay by his side until the very end, a ghost in the shell, a sister in spirit.
You were a skeptical spirit when that rubber boy first appeared, all boisterous laughter and a ridiculous straw hat. Would he even appreciate Brook’s music? Our music? you’d wondered, your spectral arms crossed as you watched Luffy’s carefree antics. When Brook first sang "Bink's Sake" with them, a hesitant melody at first, you held your breath. Luffy’s immediate joy, his genuine grin as he clapped along, surprised you. It wasn't just politeness; it was pure, unadulterated delight. Maybe, you conceded, a sliver of your spectral worry fading.
Then there was Zoro. His constant grimace and silent intensity initially put you on edge. He seemed so… serious, so different from the jovial crew you once knew. But you saw the respect in his eyes when Brook drew his sword for a fight, the silent nod they exchanged before charging into danger. Once, when Brook was humming a melancholic tune, you saw Zoro lean against the mast, listening intently, a rare moment of stillness. You realized then that Zoro appreciated Brook’s strength and perhaps even his sorrow, in his own quiet way. He's got his back, you thought, a sense of reassurance washing over you.
Nami was sharp, practical, and often exasperated by Brook’s antics. You’d see her scold him for his perverted jokes, and you worried she found him nothing but a nuisance. But then came the time they were caught in a storm. Fear gripped them all, but Brook started playing a lively jig, his music a defiant roar against the raging elements. You saw Nami, despite her fear, crack a small smile. Later, when they were safe, she even thanked him, a rare and genuine expression of gratitude. She might not always show it, but she cares, you concluded, seeing past her tough exterior.
Usopp was a curious case. His tall tales and cowardly screams were a stark contrast to Brook’s composed demeanor. Yet, they bonded over their shared moments of fear, their nervous laughter echoing across the deck during tense situations. You witnessed Usopp eagerly listening to Brook’s spooky stories, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and fascination. And when Usopp actually landed a crucial shot in a battle, you saw Brook cheer him on with genuine enthusiasm. They understand each other’s weaknesses and celebrate their strengths, you mused, a warmth blossoming in your chest.
Sanji… oh, Sanji. From the moment the cook laid eyes on Brook, you felt a strange sense of kinship. His flamboyant gestures and undying devotion to the ladies mirrored a certain charm you remembered from your own crew. But it was his reaction to Brook's music that truly endeared him to you. He would often request specific songs while preparing meals, humming along with a dreamy look in his eyes. He treated Brook with a level of genuine warmth and respect that made your spectral heart flutter. You’d see him offer Brook extra helpings of food (even though he technically couldn't eat), always with a smile and a kind word. You found yourself lingering near Sanji, drawn to his passionate spirit and his unwavering kindness towards your friend. He’s good. Really good, you admitted, a feeling akin to affection blooming within you.
Chopper, the little reindeer doctor, was pure innocence and boundless empathy. He was always fascinated by Brook, his skeletal form and his stories of the past. You often saw Chopper listening intently to Brook’s tales, his big blue eyes wide with wonder and sometimes sadness. He would even try to offer Brook medicine for his “injuries,” his earnest concern touching your spectral heart. Brook, in turn, was always gentle and patient with Chopper, his bony hand occasionally patting the reindeer’s head. He’s so pure. Brook needs that, you realized, a protective instinct rising within you.
Franky, the cyborg shipwright, was a boisterous and loyal friend. You watched them bond over the ship, Franky showing Brook all his latest inventions, and Brook often composing silly songs about the Sunny. Their interactions were always filled with laughter and a shared sense of adventure. Franky never seemed bothered by Brook’s morbid humor, often joining in with his own over-the-top reactions. They’re both a little… out there. But they fit, you chuckled silently.
Robin, the quiet archaeologist, possessed a deep understanding of history and loneliness, something you sensed she shared with Brook. You often saw them talking for hours, their conversations hushed and thoughtful. Robin never flinched at Brook’s skeletal appearance; instead, she seemed genuinely interested in his past and his stories. You saw a mutual respect and a quiet understanding blossom between them. She sees the history within him, you observed, feeling a sense of peace.
Even Jinbei, the stoic fish-man, showed a quiet respect for Brook. You witnessed him listen attentively to Brook’s songs, his usually stern face softening slightly with the melodies. During battles, they fought back-to-back, a silent understanding passing between them. Jinbei’s presence brought a sense of stability and wisdom to the crew, something you felt Brook needed. He’s a steady presence. Good for them all, you acknowledged, your initial worries almost completely gone.
Watching them all, you finally understood. They weren’t your crew, but they were Brook’s now. They cherished his music, laughed at his jokes (even the bad ones), and stood by him in every danger. They had become his new family, and in their warmth and camaraderie, you found a measure of peace. He wasn't alone anymore. And perhaps, just perhaps, that was enough.It had become your sacred duty, a quiet oath whispered to the wind. You were Brook’s guardian, his sister in spirit, and now, by extension, you were theirs too. They were his family, his crew—his nakama. How could you not watch over them?
Your protection was a subtle art, a delicate dance between the physical and the spectral. When Nami was charting a course through a treacherous fog, you'd hover over the map table. A faint, almost imperceptible warmth would guide her hand to the correct coordinates, a whisper of a forgotten current. She'd pause, a frown creasing her brow, before correcting her course with a confident, "Just a hunch." You'd smile, a silent laugh echoing in the empty air.
You were Zoro's unseen sparring partner. During his intense training sessions, you'd dart around him, a wisp of motion just at the edge of his perception. You'd push against his swords, a faint pressure that forced him to adjust his stance, to be faster, sharper. He’d often stop, his hand on a hilt, muttering to himself about a strange draft. You knew he'd only become stronger because of it.
For Usopp, your protection was more direct. During a particularly fierce battle, as a heavy piece of debris careened towards him, you gathered all your spectral strength. With a grunt that only you could hear, you pushed against the falling wood. The object’s trajectory shifted just enough to graze his shoulder instead of crushing him. He'd looked around, bewildered, before shrugging it off as a lucky break. You’d sigh in relief, the exertion leaving you weak and trembling for a time.
You had a special way of looking out for Sanji, too. When a rival ship's sniper took aim at him, you were there. You manifested as a sudden, bright flash of light reflecting off the lens of the scope, a momentary distraction that made the sniper hesitate just long enough for Sanji to dodge the incoming bullet. You'd watch him light a cigarette, unaware of how close he'd come to danger, and you'd feel a warmth spread through you. He was safe, and that's all that mattered.
You protected them all in these small, unseen ways. During long nights at sea, you’d patrol the ship, a silent sentinel against danger. You’d whisper warnings into Brook's ear—a low, haunting note in his music that would make him pause and alert the others to an approaching storm or an enemy ship. You were their invisible shield, their silent guardian. You couldn't fight alongside them in a traditional sense, but your presence, your unwavering care, was a different kind of strength—a spiritual anchor for the Straw Hat Pirates.
Sometimes, you wondered if they truly felt you, or if it was just the sea air, a trick of the light. But Usopp, in his way, had voiced the unspoken. During a particularly spooky night watch, he'd shivered and muttered, "I swear, there's someone else on this ship. A ghost. A friendly one, I hope." He’d said it as a joke, but you knew there was a kernel of truth in his bravado. They all felt it—that gentle, unseen presence.
When Brook would play one of your old songs, the notes laced with a familiar sadness, you would join in. Your voice was a soft, ethereal harmony, an undertone that wove itself into his melody. Only if someone truly listened, with their heart as much as their ears, could they hear the second voice. Sanji, when cooking late at night, would pause and smile to himself, a faraway look in his eyes. He’d think it was just the sound of the wind, but you knew he heard you. He heard the echo of a forgotten singer, a ghost humming a lullaby just for them.
You were there for their sorrows, too. When Robin was lost in thought, a cloud of loneliness hanging over her, you would appear beside her. Not as a full form, but as a faint, shimmering outline. You'd hum a quiet, comforting tune, a silent sister in her solitude. She would feel the sudden calm, the gentle shift in the air, and she would look up, a soft smile gracing her lips. She never saw you, but she felt you, a shared understanding between two souls who knew what it was to be alone.
And then there were the nightmares. When Chopper cried out in his sleep, his little body trembling, you would enter his dreamscape. You'd appear not as a terrifying ghost, but as a soft, comforting light. You’d guide him away from the shadows, reminding him of the warm deck of the Sunny, of his friends’ laughter. He’d wake up with a gasp, a fresh tear on his cheek, but the fear would be gone, replaced by a lingering feeling of peace. He’d rub his eyes, confused but safe, and you would disappear back into the waking world, your task complete.
You were more than just a ghost on board; you were their silent confidant, their gentle guardian, the unseen thread that wove them all closer together. They may not have been your crew, but they were your family now. And your love for them was as real as the ship's sails, as constant as the ocean tide.
The day had started with the usual chaotic symphony of laughter and sunshine. You floated beside Brook, your transparent form a silent witness to his jests with the crew. He was telling some ridiculous skeleton joke to Franky and Sanji, who were both laughing so hard they were practically crying. The sound was a melody you cherished, a stark contrast to the lonely, sorrowful notes you'd lived with for decades.
Then, a shadow fell over the deck. A ship, its sails a tattered black, loomed on the horizon. It was a crude, heavy vessel, a brutal thing of rusted iron and sharp angles. You could feel the dark aura radiating from it, a foul energy that seemed to curdle the air. These weren't like the Straw Hats. These pirates were cruel, their laughter a harsh, grating sound even from a distance. Their flag, a grinning skull with jagged teeth, was a promise of pain, not adventure.
The ship, emblazoned with the name "Grimfang's Maw," drew alongside the Sunny with a sickening crunch of wood against metal. A monstrous man with a face scarred like a roadmap of violence stood on the bow. "Well, well," he sneered, his voice a gravelly rumble. "What have we here? A floating playground for a bunch of freaks."
His crew jeered in agreement. One of them, a woman with a whip, cracked it in the air. "Look at 'em," she cackled. "A walking skeleton, a green-haired idiot, a reindeer... Is this a circus act or a pirate crew?"
The insults hit like physical blows. You felt a surge of rage, a cold fire spreading through your ethereal form. You saw Sanji's expression darken, his hand clenching into a fist. Usopp visibly trembled, but stood his ground. Brook, however, was the one who spoke.
"Pardon me," he said, his voice as polite and elegant as ever. "But my friends and I do not appreciate such rudeness. Perhaps you would be so kind as to move along?"
The monstrous captain threw his head back and roared with laughter. "Look at him, the talking bones! You sound like you belong in a grave, not on a ship! We heard about you, the freak who can't even die right." He gestured dismissively with a huge hand. "We're here to take your treasure and sink your little playboat. So, I suggest you all hand over your valuables and swim for it."
The malicious energy from their crew was a tangible presence, and it made you ache with a protective fury. This wasn't a challenge; it was a threat. And they had dared to mock your friend, your brother. You knew, with a certainty that burned like a physical flame, that they had just made a terrible mistake.
The brawl erupted with the ferocity of a sudden squall. You watched, your spectral form darting around the deck, a silent protector in the chaos. The Straw Hats moved with a practiced fluidity, a well-oiled machine of incredible power. Zoro was a blur of steel, his three swords carving a path through the enemy crew. Sanji's legs were a whirlwind of devastating kicks, and Luffy's fists stretched and snapped with the force of cannonballs. They were strong, just as you knew they'd be.
You did your part, a quiet guardian in the maelstrom. You sent a chilling draft down the neck of a pirate as he was about to blindside Usopp, making him flinch and miss his shot. You caused a deck plank to creak loudly behind another, making him turn in confusion just as Franky delivered a powerful punch. Your small, ghostly acts were enough to tip the scales, to give the Straw Hats the slight edge they needed.
But then, a hulking brute with a heavy iron mace charged at Brook. He was too fast, too big, too close. Brook was in the middle of a flourish with his sword, and there was no time to dodge. The mace swung down with a sickening speed, aimed to crush his skull.
You didn't think. You acted.
A primal fear, a protective rage, surged through you. You pushed forward, your ethereal body suddenly feeling heavy, solid. The spectral field that normally kept you untouchable flared, and for a split second, you were no longer a ghost. You were there, a tangible presence.
Your hand, no longer translucent but a shimmering, solid form, shot out. It closed around the mace's spiked head with a thunderous clang. The force of the impact jarred you, a feeling you hadn't experienced in decades. You felt the cold steel against your palm, and with a guttural roar, you crushed it. The mace twisted and crumpled under your grip like a tin can.
The brute stared at you, his eyes wide with a terror that surpassed any fear he had for the Straw Hats. You looked at him, your form now solid enough to cast a faint shadow, and with a surge of strength, you hurled his broken weapon at him. The man sailed across the deck, his large body crashing into his fellow pirates like a bowling ball.
Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, your form dissolved back into a shimmering wisp of light. The deck was silent for a beat, the fighting paused in stunned disbelief.
"What... what was that?" Nami whispered, her eyes wide as she stared at the spot where you had just been.
Zoro's hand tightened on his sword hilt, his brow furrowed in a way that wasn't just confusion, but deep suspicion. "I've heard of ghosts, but... that was different."
Sanji stood frozen, his cigarette hanging forgotten from his lips. He'd seen the moment of impact, the flicker of a face he thought he'd recognized from a distant memory, a face now solidified in his mind.
But it was Brook who reacted the most. He had seen you, truly seen you, for the first time in over fifty years. He dropped his violin, his bony hand trembling as he stared at the empty space. "That face..." he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. "I know that face. That was... that was you. You stayed."
The other pirates, the ones still standing, were completely shaken. They had seen a ghost, a real one, not a skeleton. Their captain, the monstrous Grimfang, staggered to his feet, his bravado gone, replaced by a deep, shaking fear. "Retreat!" he bellowed, his voice laced with terror. "It's a cursed ship! Get out of here, now!"
As they scrambled back to their ship, the Straw Hats were left in silence, their eyes darting between the crushed mace and their friend, who stood still as a statue, a single tear—a tear he was no longer able to shed—running down his face.
A moment later, the shock of it all hit you. You were a ghost. You shouldn't have been able to do that. The exertion of it, the sheer force of becoming solid, left you feeling hollow, like a gust of wind could scatter your essence. You drifted back to Brook's side, a silent, trembling wisp of light.
Brook, meanwhile, was in a full-blown panic. "It's you!" he cried out, his voice a disbelieving sob. "You're still here! How... why..." His skeletal hands were shaking, and he was staring at the space where you floated, as if he could see you. The rest of the crew, still reeling from the sudden appearance and disappearance of a ghost that could crush steel, watched him with wide, confused eyes.
"Brook, what are you talking about?" Nami asked, her voice tight with a mix of fear and concern. "Who was that?"
Usopp, still clutching his slingshot, was practically vibrating with terror. "A real ghost! A real, strong, ship-crushing ghost! We're all gonna die!"
Sanji, however, was staring at the empty space with a completely different look. His usual flirtatious demeanor was gone, replaced by a soft, almost dreamy expression. "She... she was beautiful," he murmured, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. "That light... I've never seen anything like it." You felt a strange flutter in your spectral core at his words.
Zoro, ever the pragmatist, was frowning. "It's a spirit," he said, his hand still on a sword hilt. "But it protected us. It's on our side."
Suddenly, a small voice piped up. "I know her," Chopper said, and the entire crew froze. Every eye in the silence of the deck turned to the tiny doctor.
"What?" Robin asked, her calm demeanor shaken.
Chopper nervously shuffled his hooves. "I've... I've seen her before." He looked at the spot where you were, a sense of wonder replacing his earlier fear. "When I have bad dreams... when I'm scared... she comes." He looked at each of them, his big blue eyes earnest and full of belief. "She's always there, a light that chases away the shadows. She gets me out of my nightmares."
The deck fell into a dead, absolute silence. No one spoke. No one moved. The sounds of the ocean and the creaking of the ship were the only things to be heard. They all knew, in that moment, that they hadn't just been saved by a ghost. They had been watched over, protected, and cared for by a spirit who had been with them all along.
Brook slowly bent down and picked up his violin, his long, bony fingers tracing the smooth wood as if to ground himself. The frantic energy that had seized him was gone, replaced by a profound, heart-wrenching stillness. He turned to face the crew, his skeletal face a mask of grief and wonder.
"She was my Nakama," he said, his voice a low, tremulous whisper. "She was the lead singer of our crew, the Rumbar Pirates. Her voice... it was as beautiful as a siren's, just as enchanting and just as powerful. We lost her to a sickness on that cursed island, a sickness we couldn't outrun."
He paused, a single, silent tear running down his bony cheek. "I thought I had been alone all this time. I thought she had gone on, lifted her soul to the great beyond. I never imagined... that she would stay."
The silence that followed was different from before. It was a silence of dawning realization, of a thousand small, strange events suddenly clicking into place.
"The wind," Sanji murmured, a soft, dazed look on his face. "Sometimes, when I'm cooking, I swear I can hear a soft hum, a harmony in the notes of my food. I just... thought I was imagining it."
Nami nodded slowly, a shiver running through her. "When I'm charting, and I'm sure of the course, sometimes I'll feel a pull, a whisper on the wind, telling me to adjust just a little bit. It's saved us more than once from bad currents."
"In my dreams," Chopper said again, his voice filled with newfound understanding. "It's always the same. I'm afraid, and then a light appears. It always hums a song. A very gentle, very warm song."
Zoro’s eyes narrowed slightly, a rare look of thoughtfulness on his face. "During my training... I always felt a presence. A slight pressure on my blades, pushing me to be better. I just thought it was my imagination, a new way to train myself."
Even Jinbei, the usually stoic fish-man, offered a quiet confirmation. "When I stand watch at night, I sometimes feel a calm wash over me. A gentle reminder to be steady, to be vigilant. I always attributed it to the peace of the sea, but... perhaps it was something more."
Brook looked at each of them in turn, the silent stories from each of them a testament to your quiet love and protection. He then turned his head, looking directly at the space beside him where you were. "You've been with me all this time," he whispered, a question and a statement all in one. "You were my family, and now... you've become theirs too."
A new feeling settled over the ship, a profound, shared understanding. You were not just a ghost; you were a member of their crew, their unseen guardian, their silent Nakama.
The world, once an intangible plane, was slowly becoming a place of sensation again for you. After that day, the day you touched the mace, things were... different. You weren't a full ghost anymore, not in the way you had been. The more you felt their love, their acceptance, the more you found yourself anchored to their world.
It started with small things. One evening, as Sanji was placing a cup of tea on the table, a ghostly, shimmering hand appeared and steadied it just before it could tip over. He stared at his hand, then at the still-wobbling cup, completely bewildered. "Did... did I just see that?" he muttered to himself.
Another time, when Usopp was trying to hammer a nail into a piece of wood, he missed, and the hammer slipped from his grip, flying towards Chopper. You instinctively shot out a hand, and for a split second, a translucent, ethereal limb was visible. It caught the hammer in mid-air, bringing it to a dead stop, before it dissolved back into nothingness. Chopper looked at Usopp, then at the hammer, then back at Usopp, his big eyes wide with disbelief. Usopp, for his part, just fainted.
But the most incredible moment came one night as Brook was playing "Bink's Sake." He was in a particularly melancholic mood, and the notes were filled with a deep, longing sadness. You, as always, hummed along, your voice a silent harmony to his. But this time, something shifted. Your voice, which had always been an echo in the wind, a silent undertone, suddenly became clear. It rose, a full, beautiful, and heart-wrenching sound that wove itself into his.
Brook's eyes went wide, and he stopped playing mid-note. The crew, who had been listening with somber reverence, were now staring at each other with shock. Your voice, a pure, angelic melody, hung in the air, a phantom sound that was both a ghost from the past and a new reality. You stopped, your voice catching in your throat, but the crew, they all heard it. They heard the beautiful, haunting voice of the Rumbar Pirates’ lost singer. They heard you.
Brook, still stunned, slowly raised his bow and started the song again. This time, you joined him, not as a whisper, but as a duet. The two of you, a skeleton and a ghost, filled the night with a harmony that was both a memory and a promise. And for the first time in fifty years, you truly felt like you were home.
That night, an alien sensation settled over you. Ghosts don't get tired. In all your years as a restless spirit, you had never truly slept. You had drifted, you had rested, but the deep, bone-weary exhaustion of a physical body was a feeling you'd forgotten. But now, after the exertion of touching the physical world and making your voice heard, a heavy fatigue pulled at your spectral limbs. Your form, more solid now than ever before, slumped against the mast of the Thousand Sunny as the crew went to bed. For the first time in over fifty years, you closed your eyes and truly, deeply slept.
You awoke to a scream.
It was Usopp's voice, a shrill, panicked sound that pierced the quiet of the night. Your eyes snapped open, and you saw him, standing just a few feet away, his face a mask of pure terror. Your first thought was that a huge bug, or a monster, must be behind you. You were a ghost, after all. He couldn't be screaming at you.
But as you turned, you saw him pointing directly at you. His eyes weren't looking past you; they were looking at you. A cold dread, a feeling you hadn't felt in a lifetime, washed over you. You looked down at your hands, and your heart, long a silent and still organ, lurched.
Your hands, once transparent and shimmering, were now almost fully formed. You could still see the faintest of outlines, a ghostly transparency if you really tried, but they were there. They were solid. They were real. You could feel the rough texture of the deck beneath your palms, the cool night air on your skin. You were not a ghost anymore. You were seen. You were felt. You were here.
Usopp's scream ripped through the pre-dawn quiet, echoing across the still-sleeping ship. Within seconds, the other Straw Hats, jolted awake and adrenaline pumping, tumbled out onto the deck. Luffy, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, was the first to appear, followed closely by Zoro, hand instinctively reaching for his sword. Nami and Robin emerged next, their expressions a mix of grogginess and concern, with Chopper peeking out from behind Robin’s legs. Franky, ever vigilant, was already scanning the surroundings, while Sanji, cigarette already lit, looked around with a frown. Even Jinbei, who usually slept soundly, was there, his large form a reassuring presence.
"What is it, Usopp?!" Luffy demanded, his voice still thick with sleep. "Did a sea monster get on board?"
Usopp, however, could only point a trembling finger at you, his eyes wide and unblinking. "T-t-there!" he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "The... the ghost! It's... it's solid!"
All eyes turned to where Usopp was pointing. The morning light, still soft and golden, illuminated your form. You stood there, no longer a faint shimmer, but a person. You could see the surprised gasps, the wide eyes, the utter disbelief etched on their faces.
Zoro's hand tightened on his sword hilt. Nami gasped, clutching Robin's arm. Chopper peeked out further, his usual fear replaced by wide-eyed curiosity. Franky's mechanical jaw dropped open. Sanji's cigarette fell from his lips, forgotten. Jinbei's usually calm expression held a hint of astonishment. Luffy tilted his head, a confused but not entirely frightened look on his face.
And then there was Brook. He stood frozen, his skeletal frame as still as a statue. His empty eye sockets seemed to widen, and a silent gasp seemed to emanate from him. He simply stared, unmoving, his violin lying forgotten at his feet.
Your gaze locked onto Brook. A wave of emotion, of relief, of disbelief, washed over you. Without thinking, you ran towards him, your feet solid on the wooden deck. You reached out, your hand no longer ethereal, but real, and you wrapped your arms around his bony frame.
You could feel him. The hard, unyielding structure of his skeleton, the slight give of his clothing. You could hold him. Truly hold him for the first time in decades. You squeezed him tightly, burying your face against his shoulder, a sob escaping your lips.
"Brook," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "Brook, it's me. It's really me."
For a moment, he remained frozen, as if unsure if this was another cruel trick of the afterlife. Then, slowly, hesitantly, his bony arms rose and wrapped around you, a fragile embrace that held a lifetime of longing. A sound, a choked sob, escaped his skeletal throat.
"Y/n?" he whispered, his voice filled with disbelief and overwhelming joy. "Is it truly you? Are you... real?"
You pulled back slightly, looking into his empty eye sockets, tears streaming down your face. "Yes, Brook. It's me. I'm here. I'm real."
The sun continued to rise, casting a golden glow over the deck. The Straw Hat crew stood in stunned silence, witnessing a moment that defied everything they thought they knew about the world. You were there, solid and real, holding the skeleton who had mourned your loss for half a century. It felt like a dream, an impossible, beautiful dream. But the warmth of Brook's embrace, the feel of his bones beneath your fingers, the stunned faces of your new family – it was all undeniably real. You were back.
A new, stunned silence fell over the deck, one that wasn't born of fear but of pure, unadulterated wonder. The crew slowly gathered around you and Brook, their initial shock giving way to a shared, hesitant curiosity.
Nami was the first to speak, her voice soft and a little shaky. “You’re… really here?” she asked, a hand tentatively reaching out before pulling back. “You’re not… see-through anymore?”
You let go of Brook, your skin feeling surprisingly warm in the morning air. You glanced down at your hands, still amazed by their solidity. You nodded, a smile spreading across your face. “I think so,” you whispered, the sound a foreign but wonderful thing in your ears.
Chopper, ever the doctor, approached with a nervous hop, circling you as he sniffled. He looked from you to Brook and back again, his eyes welling up. “You’re all better!” he exclaimed, a joyful sob escaping him. “You’re not a ghost anymore!”
Luffy, his shock finally wearing off, burst into a wide grin. “That’s so cool! You’re a real person now!” he declared, bounding forward to get a closer look.
Zoro, with his usual scowl, simply grunted in acknowledgment, though a slight, almost imperceptible upturn of his lips gave away his relief. Franky offered a loud, "SUPER!" as he wiped a tear from his eye. Robin smiled, a genuine and soft expression of awe on her face. Even Jinbei gave a gentle nod, a calm and respectful smile on his lips.
Your gaze then landed on Sanji. He was still standing a little apart from the group, a cigarette forgotten between his fingers. He met your eyes, and a soft, kind smile spread across his face, one that made your spectral heart flutter all over again. You returned his smile, a genuine grin that felt so good after a lifetime of silent, ethereal expressions.
Without thinking, you darted forward and, in a moment of pure, joyful instinct, you grabbed both of his hands in yours. You had no sense of personal space, having been a ghost for so long, and the warmth of his skin was a shocking, wonderful sensation. Sanji froze, a blush creeping up his neck.
Your eyes, now wide and sparkling with a new kind of hunger, fixed on him. “You’re the cook, aren’t you?” you asked, your voice a little louder than you intended. “I’ve heard so much about your food! I… I need to try it. I need to eat something! Right now!”
Brook, who had been watching with a heart full of joy, burst into a hearty, rattling laugh. “Yohohohoho! It seems she hasn’t changed a bit! Just like Luffy, she has a bottomless appetite! It seems you'll have your hands full, Sanji!”
A wave of emotion, a feeling so raw and powerful it was almost painful, washed over you. You squeezed Sanji's hands, your voice thick with an overwhelming sense of loss and longing. "You don't understand," you said, your eyes welling up with a sadness that had been building for decades. "All these years... I've been smelling it. The food. Your food. All the incredible smells you create every day... I've smelled all of it, but I could never taste a single bite. Not once."
A single, silent tear rolled down your cheek, a testament to the fifty years of phantom hunger you'd endured. "I'm so hungry, Sanji. I'm truly, absolutely starved."
Sanji's face, already flushed from your touch, deepened in color. He stuttered for a moment, his usual suave demeanor completely gone. "Y-y-you... you've been smelling my food?" he stammered, his eyes wide with disbelief and a deep, genuine emotion. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. "Of course! Anything for a beautiful lady! I'll make you the most delicious breakfast you've ever had!"
A teasing voice cut through the air. "Look at him," Nami smirked, poking Sanji's shoulder. "He's completely smitten. Can't even string a sentence together."
Zoro, a rare grin on his face, added, "Tch, the lovesick cook is even more useless than usual."
Brook, however, didn't laugh. He stepped forward, placing a bony hand on your shoulder in a protective gesture. "Yohohoho," he chuckled, but the sound was laced with a serious undertone. "I've been waiting for a long, long time to see her eat again. Don't disappoint her, Sanji. She deserves the best."
Sanji nodded, his eyes filled with a sudden, fierce determination. He pulled his hands from yours, gave you a warm, genuine smile, and then turned to the galley, a man on a mission. "Don't you worry, Brook," he called back over his shoulder. "This will be a breakfast for a hundred years of waiting. I won't disappoint you, either of you."
You, along with a train of curious Straw Hats, followed Sanji into the galley. The aroma of spices and simmering broth, once a source of phantom torture, now filled you with a tangible, exquisite joy. As Sanji, with a renewed sense of purpose, began pulling out ingredients, the others gathered around you, their faces alight with questions.
"So, you were a ghost this whole time?" Chopper asked, his small voice full of awe. "Was it scary?"
"Not really," you replied, your voice still a little shaky, but getting stronger. "It was... lonely. I got used to it."
Usopp, ever the storyteller, was captivated. "Did you ever try to possess anyone? Like, make them do funny dances or something?"
You laughed, a genuine, hearty sound that felt foreign but wonderful. "No, I couldn't. It took all my strength just to move a cup. And besides," you said, glancing at Brook, "I would never do that to a friend."
Nami's curiosity was more practical. "How did you become solid again? Was it the fight? The emotional stress?"
You shrugged. "I don't know," you admitted. "I think... after so long, being on my own, my will was all tied up in protecting Brook. But then I saw how much you all cared about him, how you were his new family. It was like... my heart finally had room to feel again. The more I felt for all of you, the more real I became."
Sanji, who had been listening intently while whisking eggs, stopped for a moment, a deep, thoughtful expression on his face. He looked at you, and the way he smiled made your heart do a little flip. "A strong heart can do incredible things," he said softly, a statement that seemed to be meant for you alone.
Meanwhile, Brook was standing by your side, his hand resting on your shoulder. He spoke to the crew, his voice full of pride. "She was a brave pirate, always putting the crew first. I always knew she'd never leave us. Even in death, she was looking out for us, protecting us."
As Sanji placed a perfectly cooked omelet in front of you, the steam wafting up to your face, you realized the phantom hunger was gone. It was replaced with a real, physical desire. You picked up the fork, the feeling of its cold metal against your fingers a shocking delight. And as you took your first bite in over fifty years, a single, joyful tear rolled down your cheek. It tasted like home. It tasted like family. It tasted like love.
You didn't eat. You devoured. Sanji, with a confident flourish, had set a modest plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of you. It was gone in two bites. He laughed, a pleased blush on his cheeks, and set down another. That, too, vanished in a blink. Soon, he wasn't even bothering with the plates. He was just handing you food straight from the pan, his movements becoming more frantic as he tried to keep up with your insatiable hunger.
You ate a whole loaf of bread, an entire platter of sizzling bacon, a mountain of fluffy pancakes, and half a dozen bowls of rice. Your phantom stomach, long a void, was finally being filled, and with every bite, a soft, ethereal light seemed to emanate from you. Your skin shimmered, your eyes sparkled, and a profound, radiant joy pulsed from you. The crew watched in a mixture of awe and amusement, as if they were witnessing a miracle.
"Whoa!" Luffy exclaimed, his mouth agape. "She eats even more than me!"
Suddenly, Usopp, who had been watching the feast with greedy eyes, reached out a hand towards a piece of sausage Sanji was about to give you. In a flash, your head whipped around. Your smile vanished, replaced by a fierce, protective glare. Your eyes, now glowing with a faint light, locked onto his hand. Usopp recoiled, his face pale with fear, and snatched his hand back. "S-sorry!" he squeaked.
You returned to your food, your glowing face once again wreathed in a beatific smile, as if nothing had happened. Sanji, who had witnessed the entire exchange, just laughed nervously and began to cook even faster. He was sweating, his movements a blur of culinary genius and pure panic as he tried to satisfy a hunger that had been waiting for fifty years.
With a final, contented sigh, you licked the last bit of syrup from your fingers. The last of Sanji's feast, a tower of fruit-topped crepes, had disappeared in a whirlwind of joyful gluttony. You patted your now-full stomach, a feeling you hadn't experienced in over fifty years. The sheer, overwhelming contentment was a physical sensation, a warm, golden glow spreading through your entire body.
You turned to Sanji, who was leaning against the counter, panting and covered in flour, a half-empty box of eggs in his hand. He looked like he had just gone ten rounds with a champion boxer, but his eyes were shining with a triumphant, happy pride.
Without a second thought, you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into a tight, warm hug. "Thank you, Sanji," you whispered into his ear. "That was... the best food I've ever had in my life."
Then, you leaned in and kissed his cheek.
Sanji froze, his face turning a brilliant shade of crimson. The sound of a spoon clattering to the floor was the only sound in the galley as the other Straw Hats watched in stunned silence. Sanji's eyes, wide with shock, slowly met yours. The look on his face wasn't one of embarrassment, but of a quiet, profound adoration.
A moment later, Brook cleared his throat, a soft, amused chuckle escaping his lips. "It seems my dear friend has found a new way to show her gratitude," he said, his voice laced with a gentle teasing. The rest of the crew, their initial shock wearing off, began to laugh and cheer.
Sanji, still completely flustered but with a wide, dopey grin on his face, gently pushed you away. "Anything for you, my dear," he stuttered, his voice filled with a genuine sweetness that made your heart skip a beat. "Anything at all."
Later that afternoon, you and Brook were on the deck, enjoying the gentle rhythm of the sea. The rest of the crew had left you two to your reunion, understanding that you needed time. The sun was warm on your skin, a sensation you were still getting used to, and Brook was strumming a quiet, thoughtful melody on his violin.
He stopped playing, and a soft, mournful sigh escaped his bones. "You know," he said, his voice quiet, "I always thought you were gone. I thought you had moved on, to wherever souls go after they leave their bodies. I never imagined you would still be here. With me."
You looked at him, your heart aching with a familiar pang of love and sorrow. "I couldn't leave, Brook," you confessed, your voice barely a whisper. "I couldn't leave you alone. When the others lifted, I tried to go with them. But every time I tried to move on, to leave this plane, all I could see was you. Left behind, all alone, on a ship with no one."
A tear, a real, physical tear, rolled down your cheek. "I just... I couldn't do it. I couldn't abandon you. You were my family, my brother. I promised I'd always be with you, and I couldn't break that promise, even in death."
Brook placed his bony hand on your shoulder, a gesture of comfort that now felt real and solid. "You were alone for so long, then," he said, his voice laced with a deep sadness. "Fifty years, just to be with me."
You shook your head, a soft smile on your face. "I wasn't alone, Brook. You were there. I was your guardian, your silent companion. I got to watch you grow, watch you find a new crew. A new family. I watched you find your joy again. And being with you, watching you find your happiness... it was worth every single lonely year."
The sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, and you found yourself immersed in the vibrant, chaotic life of the Straw Hat Pirates. It was as if you had always been there, not as a ghost, but as a living, breathing member of their crew.
Luffy, with his endless energy, challenged you to a game of tag, his rubbery limbs making him a frustratingly difficult target. You, with a newfound sense of joy and freedom, laughed as you chased him around the deck, your feet pounding on the wood. He was a force of nature, a child-like captain who had, in his own way, saved you from your solitary vigil.
Zoro, ever the stoic, simply nodded in your direction, a silent welcome. You found him in his usual spot, napping, and you quietly sat beside him, enjoying the comfortable silence. He was a mountain of quiet strength, and you realized that he, too, had been a constant, reassuring presence on the ship, a silent guardian in his own right.
Nami, the navigator, pulled you into a lively conversation about the sea, her eyes sparkling as she pointed out constellations and explained the intricacies of the currents. She was smart, spirited, and in her own way, a warm and welcoming beacon in this strange new life.
Usopp, now that his initial shock had worn off, was regaling you with a grand tale of his brave exploits, a story you'd heard a dozen times as a ghost, but one that you now listened to with a smile on your face. He was a storyteller, a dreamer, and you realized that his lies were just a way of protecting his own fragile heart.
Sanji, a genuine and soft smile permanently etched on his face, kept bringing you small treats, his way of showing affection. He was a chivalrous cook, a man of passion, and you found yourself drawn to his kindness and his unwavering love for his friends.
Chopper, the little reindeer doctor, was ecstatic to have you back. He followed you around like a tiny shadow, his big blue eyes full of a love and admiration that made your heart swell. He was a gentle soul, a healer, and he had, in his own way, healed a part of your broken heart.
Franky, the cyborg shipwright, proudly showed you all the "SUPER" features of the Thousand Sunny, his booming voice a constant source of amusement. He was a loud, boisterous friend, and his infectious enthusiasm was a joy to be around.
Robin, the quiet archaeologist, shared a knowing smile with you. She, more than anyone, understood what it was to be alone, to be an outcast. You two shared a quiet bond, a silent understanding that spoke volumes about your shared pasts.
Jinbei, the stoic fish-man, offered you a calm, respectful nod, a silent welcome into their unique and unconventional family. He was a gentle giant, a man of honor, and his presence brought a sense of calm and stability to the chaotic crew.
As the day ended, and the stars began to pepper the darkening sky, you found yourself sitting with all of them, the warmth of their bodies, the sound of their laughter, the simple joy of their presence, a feeling more precious than any treasure. You were no longer a ghost, a silent observer in their lives. You were a part of it, a member of the crew, a friend. You were home.
As the moon climbed high in the night sky, its silver light painting the deck, a hush fell over the Thousand Sunny. Brook, seated on a crate, began to play a quiet, soulful melody on his violin. It was one of the old songs, a tune that spoke of lonely nights at sea and forgotten promises. You sat beside him, your hand gently resting on his arm, a feeling that still filled you with a sense of wonder.
You began to sing, your voice soft at first, but gaining in strength and clarity with each note. It was the first time the crew had heard you sing since you had become solid again, and they listened in rapt silence. Your voice, paired with Brook's haunting violin, filled the air with a beautiful, melancholic harmony that was both a ghost of the past and a song of the present. The other Straw Hats, scattered around the deck, listened in stunned reverence, each lost in their own thoughts.
When the last note faded, the silence was profound. You felt a wave of exhaustion, the day’s emotions and physical sensations catching up to you. A shiver, not of cold but of fear, ran through you. As the others began to stir and head towards their rooms, you remained where you were, a knot forming in your stomach.
You were afraid to close your eyes, to drift off to sleep. What if it was all a dream? What if you woke up and were nothing but a ghost again, a silent observer in their world? The thought of returning to that endless, lonely existence was more terrifying than any pirate battle.
A shadow fell over you, and you looked up to see Sanji standing there, a soft, concerned look on his face. He knelt down beside you, a gentle smile on his lips. "You're not going inside?" he asked softly.
You shook your head, unable to meet his gaze. "I... I can't," you whispered, the fear catching in your throat. "What if I disappear? What if I wake up and I'm gone again?"
Sanji’s smile softened even more. Without a word, he sat down next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. The warmth of his presence was a comfort you hadn't realized you needed. "You won't disappear," he said, his voice a steady, reassuring murmur. "We're all here. And we'll be here in the morning. I'll make sure of it."
You looked at him, tears welling in your eyes, and his hand, warm and calloused, gently took yours. You didn't pull away. You held on, the solid feel of his fingers in yours a grounding anchor in the night. With him beside you, the fear began to recede, replaced by a quiet sense of peace. You finally allowed yourself to rest, the sound of the ocean and the feel of his hand in yours a comforting lullaby.
synopsis: akaashi just wanted to quietly sketch his dream manga character—he didn’t ask for bokuto’s chaos to drag him (and his art) onto twitter. but when yn’s friends stumble across the viral post, it sends her publishing world into a frenzy… and suddenly akaashi’s mysterious little doodle turns into meetings, manga deals, and, oh yeah—unexpected late-night texts, lingering looks, and a slow-burn romance neither of them saw coming. oops. guess this story’s getting a rewrite.
warnings/genre: modern au, stinky fluff, timeskip, cursing, kys/kms jokes, slight miscommunication, talks about insecurities
warnings will be displayed at the beginning of each chapter.
status: ongoing! (no posting schedule as of yet)
taglist: comment on masterlist to be added [15/50] :)
dividers: @/strangergraphics
playlist
introductions: best friends kiss ALL the time | _ days since kenma showered
(✎ indicates written portion)
chapter one: girl, close your blinds!
chapter two: my friend isn’t a stalker, he’s just weird!
chapter three: maybe he smells you through the screen?
chapter four: today he showers and you text her back!
a/n: someone cue coffee by bts please and thank you 🙂↕️
the first date you guys ever went on was to a coffee shop.
did shoyo drink coffee? no. was he already in too deep to say no when you suggested a new coffee shop you wanted to try? absolutely.
shoyo memorized your coffee order the very first time.
years later, when he's the first to get up on friday mornings, after his morning run and before leaving for practice, he stops by the cafe you love and picks up that exact order. he never gets anything for himself (lord knows he does not need that boost), but he always makes it home just in time for you to wake up while the drink is still fresh.
you hear him open the door and step into the apartment just as you're waking up. you blink sleepily at him as he comes in, a smile on his face.
he walks to your side of the bed, and your eyes flutter close when he leans over and presses a kiss to your lips.
"morning, sleepyhead," you can hear the sunshine in his voice even as your eyes remain shut with sleep. you open them just in time to see him hold up the familiar cup. "brought your usual."
the smile on your face is sleepy and soft and filled with so much love. you don't sit up as you put your arms up and tug him down into a hug. he laughs as he bends over, wrapping his arms around you. your eyes close again of their own accord, the scent of him filling your lungs.
your words come out muffled as you put your face into his hair, appreciating the scent of his shampoo. "love you, sho"
"love you more," he laughs as he tries to wiggle out of your grasp, but your arms remain firm. "but, baby, i gotta get up! i gotta shower before practice—damn, your grip is strong!"
it's a silent second before you reluctantly release him. your arms fall back against the sheets as you blink up at him sleepily.
"can't believe you're leaving me like this...all alone...in this big empty bed..." you sighed dramatically, throwing a hand over your eyes to add to the effect.
shoyo, being used to your dramatics (this was a daily occurrence), bit back a smile. "yeah, yeah, i'm terrible, horrible, blah-blah-blah."
he couldn't restrain it for too long, though, as a big grin overtook his face. you mirrored him, happy to be the one to draw it from him. sitting up, you reached over to where he had set the drink on the nightstand and took a sip.
"god, i love you." you took another sip, sighing happily as you closed your eyes. "this is so good."
he beamed, proud to have been of service. he turned to walk away and head to the bathroom, but he didn't make it very far before you gently grabbed his hand. he turned back around to face you, curious as to why he was pulled closer.
"hm?"
you pulled him down to meet you face to face before planting a kiss on his cheek. you pulled back with a smile. "thank you, sho."
he stood there for a second, soaking up the moment. he felt his face heat up as he attempted to blink back to normalcy, focusing on your bright, soft smile.
"anytime."
smiling back, he felt you squeeze his hand before letting go. he turned around before he did anything he knew he shouldn't—like skip practice and spend the whole morning with you.
his back was turned to you, but you could still see the blush kissing his ears, his neck. and he didn't necessarily try to hide it, either.
all these years of being together, loving you, and you still made him beam like a schoolboy.
“What is that?” you asked, pointing at Hinata’s cap like it had personally offended you.
He had it on backwards, seemingly with no idea how good he looked in it. Instead of taking the (hardly) obvious compliment, he nervously chuckled and adjusted the cap in case it looked off. “What do you mean?”
“When did you start wearing caps?” you responded with another question, walking up until you stood right in front of him.
“I got this one yesterday when I was out with Bokuto,” he told you with a noncommittal shrug.
You lifted a hand to adjust the hair that curled around the edge of the hat, your stomach doing flips despite the very simple concept of it.
“You look so hot, it’s criminal.”
Hinata breathed out a heavy breath of relief, a chuckle of disbelief following it. “I thought I was in trouble!” Just as swiftly as the air around you had changed, he pulled you in for a kiss by the loops on your jeans. “Why didn’t you just say you wanted some, baby?”
genre: smau (^_^)!!, comedy/crackfic, fluff, slight angst, college!au, slow burn (?), (childhood) friends to lovers, second chance romance, constant pinning reader x in hard denial kozume
summary: the worst part of having a secret crush on yn kuroo, in kozume kenma's case, is that she's one of his close friend's ex and his childhood friend's sister. although y/n makes it clear she harbors deep feelings for the blonde, the two reasons that restrict kozume from making any moves, don't necessarily limit her, “no tetsu, I do not have a crush on your best friend aka my ex-high school situationship aka my recent ex’s best friend… but if I said I did what would the consequences be?” summaries aren't my best suit but wtvr
update sched: thursday & friday (sometimes over the weekend too!)
warning/notes: it's been a WHILE since I watched the anime so there are errors such as 'kozume' being used instead of 'kenma' for the character's first name (I found out too late into the smau of my mistake, so I just didn't change it :p), atsumu n yaku's years are off (atsumu is a senior n yaku is a junior), following the usa school system, lowercase intended, grammar errors, characters may be (definitely) ooc, profanity, kys/kms jokes, none of the pictures used are mine!! +middle picture used made by hakiso_o on twt
key
✎ - written chapter
profiles
malnourished art students + supportive parentals
kozu's paycheck
table of contents
01 ugly and bitchless
02 surrounded by homosexuals - ✎
03 stuck w me - ✎
04 fnaf
05 you. win.
06 denial is a river in egypt
07 whore house
08 moments before disaster - ✎
09 therapy
10 hi cheese
11 moral support - ✎
12 how cute - ✎
13 blondie #1.5
14 deja vu - ✎
hnnnghh marked as mature so idk if u all can see it but js lmk if u can’t 💔💔
15 monopoly
16 NOTHONGZ
17 sixth sense
18 chivalry isn't dead
19 #onebedtroupe - ✎
20 touché - ✎
21 grandmama chocolate cake - ✎
22 side-hustling - ✎
23 mistake - ✎
24 towels
25 nair hair removal - ✎
26 mic drop
27 cramps - ✎
28 TYPE SHIT
29 secret little personal diary
30 sassy man apocalypse - ✎
31 old man - ✎
32 nipples in a twist
33 BOLSHIE
34 me n the girls
35 introverted freak - ✎
36 first amendment
37 js bitch slapped my ex
38 golden setter
39 dad that stepped up
40 so feminist of you
41 DIVA DOWN
42 pandora's box
43 SHIT, BOY.
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