[angwlart]

[sakuraloveessgojo]

| He is the Sun God, the embodiment of freedom and chaos. But what is it like to find yourself one-on-one with the very power he can barely contain? When his usual carefreeness gives way to instinct, you realize: the captain no longer intends to play. In the cramped cabin, beneath the creaking of the deck, his control completely breaks down. In Gear Fifth, Luffy knows no boundaries — he claims all of your attention and strength, leaving no chance for retreat.

(Sorry if some words are unclear, the work has been translated.)

The air on Egghead was thick with the acrid smell of ozone, burnt metal, and your own almost tangible fear. The island of the future, which was supposed to be a marvel of science, had turned into a blazing hell under a steel sky. You could barely catch your breath, pressing a trembling palm to a deep, stinging gash on your shoulder. Blood soaked the fabric of your top, but you felt no pain — only an icy numbness.

Your opponent was a Seraphim — a nightmarish creation of Vegapunk with the face of a young Jimbei. His skin, cast from dark, matte metal, seemed invulnerable to your attacks. The cold, calculating fire of his programming burned in the creature's eyes. You saw him concentrating energy in his palm, preparing the final blow, and at that moment, the world around you began to shrink to a single point. You were on the edge, your strength exhausted, and you simply froze, bracing for the strike.

But instead of pain, a ringing, utterly inappropriate sound in this hellscape echoed out: "Boing!", followed by a booming, insane laugh.

You opened your eyes. Right in front of you stood a blindingly white silhouette. Gear Fifth. Luffy's hair, like living clouds, billowed in the wind, and his entire body radiated such heat that the air around him melted like a desert mirage. He wasn't just fighting — he was having fun. You watched as he turned the ground into a rubber trampoline, making the Seraphim bounce absurdly, and then, with one powerful, springy punch, he sent the machine flying across half the island.

Luffy turned to you for just a fraction of a second. His eyes in this form burned with a bright red light, and his impossible, wide smile was plastered across his face. But there was something feral in that gaze that made your heart skip a beat.

The journey to Elbaf became one continuous celebration. The giant ship of the giants, the Great Eirik, shuddered down to its keel from the stomping of colossal feet. Dorry and Brogy celebrated their reunion with their "sworn captain" so hard that the sea around them rippled from their laughter. Barrels of rum the size of small houses stood all over the deck, and the aroma of roasted meat — whole carcasses of Sea Kings — overpowered the smell of salt water.

— Hey, little one! — Dorry roared with deafening laughter, his voice vibrating in your chest, making your bones rattle. He carefully, afraid of crushing it, slid a massive mug toward you. — Drink up the Elbaf rum! Today we celebrate being back at sea with Straw Hat! Gyahaha!

— Thanks, Dorry, — you nodded, trying to shout over the noise. The rum was strong and burned your throat, but you still felt that internal chill that hadn't faded since the battle.

You sat on the edge of a huge barrel, watching the crew's familiar chaos. Nami was arguing fiercely with Usopp, who was trying to beg some "ancient metal" off the giants.

— Usopp, if you dig into their bags one more time, I'll feed you to the giants myself as a snack! — she yelled. — I just wanted to look at the forging! Nami, this is a historic moment! — Usopp defended himself, hiding behind Chopper.

Zoro sat by the mast, having a drinking contest with one of the younger giants. A mountain of empty kegs already towered around them.

— Is that all? — Zoro wiped his mouth, his gaze sharp despite the amount he'd drunk. — Looks like they only drink on holidays in Elbaf.

The giant in response just hummed in approval, slapping his palm on the deck next to the swordsman.

Sanji dashed across the deck with trays. — Oh, lovely ladies! — he flew over to you. — Try this steak, I made it specially so you could recover. You need to gather your strength!

You took the plate, but your eyes stubbornly returned to the center of the deck. Luffy was right in the middle. He was inhaling food in unfathomable quantities, his arms stretching to grab pieces of meat straight off the spits.

— MEAAAAT! — he yelled. — Hey, Franky, look at the size of this bite! — SUUUPEEER! — the cyborg replied, striking a pose.

Looking at him, you felt a familiar pang somewhere under your ribs — a mix of tenderness and a dull irritation. You had long stopped lying to yourself: your feelings for the captain had crossed the line of simple friendship a long time ago. You caught yourself memorizing his every move, every inflection of his voice, and whenever he got too close, your heart would start tap-dancing like crazy.

You remembered how, a couple of days ago, you tried to hold his gaze a little longer than usual, how you purposefully sat next to him when he fell asleep on the deck, hoping he would feel at least something.

You blushed every time his accidental touch burned your skin, and you tried to lead him away from the loud feasts early, just to be alone with him in the quiet. But Luffy... Luffy stayed true to himself. He would laugh, slap your shoulder with his heavy hand, and run off for another piece of meat, leaving you alone with your feelings.

"He really doesn't notice at all..." you thought bitterly, picking at the steak with your fork. You saw in him not just a carefree boy, but that very man whose commanding, feral gaze on Egghead had made your blood freeze. And this indifference on his part hurt more than any scrape from a fight.

The feast dragged on long past midnight. Luffy, flushed from the food and Elbaf ale, was still trying to dance when Nami appeared before him like a thundercloud.

— Enough! — A ringing smack to the forehead echoed out. — Luffy, we're on a giant's ship, not in a circus! We need our strength tomorrow, we're entering Elbaf waters! Everyone to bed! Rest up and get some sleep, right now!

Luffy, rubbing the bump on his crown, mumbled something unintelligible about "just one more bite," but under the navigator's heavy glare, he obediently trudged toward the cabins.

In your cabin, you tossed and turned for a long time. Your narrow bunk, usually so cozy, felt uncomfortable tonight, and the blanket was too stifling. The silence after the deafening roar of the giants' party pressed on your ears, forcing you to listen to the steady creaking of the familiar Sunny and the splashing of waves overboard. Eventually, you gave up, threw on your cloak, and stepped out into the corridor — just to get some fresh air.

The ship rocked steadily on the waves. And then you saw him. Luffy slipped past, coming from the kitchen. It wasn't hard to guess what he was doing there — he was chewing on something as he walked, clearly having raided Sanji's fridge. You knew he'd catch hell for it tomorrow, but right now, he looked entirely content with life.

You silently followed him with your eyes all the way to his cabin. Suddenly, something clicked inside you. You were tired of waiting. Tired of dropping hints, blushing, and hoping for a miracle. Luffy didn't understand hints — which meant it was time to change the rules of the game.

You walked up to his door and, without giving yourself time to overthink it, pushed it open.

Luffy was just about to shrug off his vest. The cabin was dim; only a sliver of moonlight from the porthole fell over his broad shoulders and his cross-shaped scar. He flinched at the sound of the opening door and spun around. His eyes, still a bit sleepy and full of confusion, stared at you.

— Oh? — he blinked, puckering his lips in a funny way. — What are you doing here? Did something happen? Is your shoulder hurting again? Or did Nami kick you out to sleep too, and you can't fall asleep?

He took a step toward you, genuinely peering into your face. That was his entire nature — he only ever saw the surface. You silently closed the door behind you, and in the quiet of the room, the click of the lock sounded like a gunshot.

Luffy froze, scratching the back of his head. — If you want meat, I... well, there's almost nothing left, — he smiled apologetically, but immediately cut himself off, noticing your gaze.

— Hey, you're acting kinda weird. Are you mad I ate everything from the fridge? Sanji's gonna kill me tomorrow anyway, don't gang up on me too!

He tried to laugh it off, but you didn't budge. You stepped closer, feeling the heat radiating off him.

— I'm not mad about the meat, idiot, — you said quietly, stopping a step away from him. — Do you really not understand a thing?

Luffy stopped smiling. He tilted his head, and his gaze turned serious. He felt the shift in the air of the room. — Understand what? You're not acting like you usually do. What am I supposed to understand?

You looked him straight in the eyes.

— Luffy, I'm here because I'm tired of waiting for you to notice anything. You became a Yonko, but you're still blind to what's happening right under your nose.

Luffy stayed silent. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. — Notice what? — his voice dropped, losing its usual bright ring. — Tell me straight. I'm no good at guessing.

You took a deep breath. The air in the cabin felt scorching. You didn't bother answering with words — they had lost their meaning. Your hands slowly reached up to the ties of your clothes. You didn't look away, watching his pupils dilate as the fabric softly slipped off your shoulders and fell to the floor.

When you bared your breasts, Luffy didn't flinch. It didn't shock him — he had seen enough in his travels that nudity alone wouldn't strip him of his composure. But now, everything was different. His gaze, usually clear and open, grew heavy, almost palpable. He slowly dragged his eyes over you, lingering on every curve, and in that silence, you felt the tension pull taut between you.

He leaned forward, closing the minuscule distance that remained. Now you could feel the heat rolling off his body and hear his heart beating. He froze, waiting for your next move, and in his eyes, there was no longer a trace of that childishness everyone was so used to.

You slowly, inch by inch, sank to your knees in front of him. Your palms slid down his thighs, and you felt his muscles tense under your fingers. Luffy went completely still, his breathing quickening as his fingers instinctively dug into the edge of the bunk.

Your hands confidently settled on the waistband of his shorts. With one smooth motion, you pulled them down, completely freeing him. His cock, already hard, sprang free from the fabric, and you felt the intense heat radiating from it. Luffy exhaled sharply, loudly through his nose, as if he'd been struck, the moment you first grazed his length with your fingertips. His jaw clenched so tight that harsh ridges stood out on his cheekbones. He pressed his lips together until they turned white, rendering his mouth into a thin, tight line. His entire demeanor screamed of extreme, agonizing focus.

You moved closer, wrapping your palm around his base. His body, so accustomed to pain and physical exertion, was now trembling slightly from an entirely different kind of tension. He wasn't looking at you anymore; his gaze was fixed on the wall.

When you leaned in and first touched his tip with your tongue, his back arched sharply, his toes curling and digging painfully into the floorboards. He didn't make a sound, only that heavy, suppressed breathing through his nose betraying his state. His entire "rubbery" nature now seemed stretched to its absolute limit, like a string ready to snap and shatter the cabin to splinters.

You slowly parted your lips and began to take him in, feeling him pulse right against your tongue. Luffy swallowed thickly, his Adam's apple jerking.

At some point, his hand slipped from the edge of the bed — he couldn't hold back anymore. His palm, warm and heavy, clamped down on the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. It wasn't a gentle touch; he gripped you firmly, almost roughly, forcing you to freeze for a moment and tilt your head back.

His gaze finally met yours. There wasn't a single trace of the goofy captain left. You took him into your mouth again, much deeper this time, swallowing him down almost to the base, feeling him stretch your throat. Luffy exhaled sharply, and his fingers in your hair tightened even more, almost pulling your face flush against his groin. He wasn't staring at the wall anymore — he was completely consumed by what you were doing, his hips beginning to involuntarily, erratically thrust forward, answering your touch.

Every movement you made dragged a short, husky intake of breath out of him.

— More... — he forced out through his teeth.

You felt his stomach tighten as his hips moved faster. Luffy was breathing loudly through his mouth, his face contorted with strain — he was right on the edge, and that final thread of control was ready to snap. He stopped trying to hold back, his movements turning harder, demanding more and more from you.

With a low, raspy moan, Luffy jerked forward, his body bowing. A hot, thick spurt of his seed shot into your mouth, filling it completely. He didn't stop right away, continuing to thrust until the very last drops left him. His fingers dug painfully into your scalp, holding you tightly against him as he breathed heavily, raggedly, trying to catch his breath.

You didn't even have time to recover, didn't even have time to wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Luffy abruptly yanked you up. The world tilted, and the next second, your back slammed into the hard mattress of his bunk. He hovered over you, pinning you to the bed with his body. His face was inches away, his eyes burning with a dark, dangerous fire.

— You started this, — he rasped, and there wasn't a hint of his usual kindness in his voice. It was the voice of a man claiming what was his.

His hand, warm and calloused, slipped to the collar of your cloak. A rip echoed — he didn't bother with the clasps, simply tearing the fabric apart with one powerful move. Luffy wasn't wasting time on tenderness.

He ripped off his remaining clothes, tossing them aside. His scar-covered body was taut, his skin literally burning to the touch. Without standing on ceremony, Luffy spread your legs with his knee, settling between your thighs. You felt his unbearable heat as he hovered over you, pressing your knees against your chest.

He looked you dead in the eye. Then, he roughly grabbed your leg, lifting it and tossing it over his shoulder. This gesture stripped you of any chance to resist, leaving you entirely open to him.

Luffy surged forward and slowly, inch by inch, began to enter. You involuntarily arched your back, your fingers digging into his shoulders, and threw your head back, gasping for air.

Luffy froze. He stopped completely inside you, giving your body a moment to adjust to his girth. His breathing, heavy and ragged, scorched your neck and ear. And then he began to move.

At first, it was short, deliberate thrusts, but with every stroke, he pushed deeper until his pelvis was crashing against your thighs. Time and time again, he drove into you to the hilt, filling you past your limit. The rhythm turned brutal, primal. Luffy showed no mercy: he changed his angle to hit even deeper, making you moan and choke on your own breath. He laced his fingers with yours, pinning your hands to the mattress, dominating you with all his weight. You felt every ridge of his muscles, every scar on his body.

In the very heat of it, when you were already on the edge, when sparks began to dance in your vision, Luffy abruptly stopped. The world around you froze, only the creaking of the cabin and your frantic heartbeat breaking the silence. You looked up at him, bewildered as to why he had stopped when you needed the release so badly. His face had changed.

He gave you no time for questions and didn't utter a word. Luffy roughly grabbed your hips and, with one powerful jerk, flipped you onto your stomach. You barely had time to brace yourself, your face burying into the pillow, before you felt him unceremoniously lifting your hips, forcing you onto all fours.

The next instant, the air in the cabin seemed to boil. You heard that distinct sound — "Boing!", and a booming, insane laugh echoed through the room. But there wasn't a drop of amusement in it.

A jolt of electricity shot through your body with the realization: Luffy was using Gear Fifth. His skin turned blindingly white, and his hair transformed into a living, billowing cloud. You could feel pure energy radiating off him, making the sheets beneath you vibrate.

He didn't wait — he entered you from behind, sharply and terrifyingly deep. Gear Fifth changed everything. His body became even more elastic and powerful at the same time. Every thrust now felt like a force of nature hitting you. You felt him stretching you from the inside in a way no normal human ever could. It was pushing the boundaries of what was possible. The world exploded with color as he began to speed up.

— Slower... Luffy, slower! — you whispered, breathless, pressing your face into the pillow.

But he wasn't listening. The laugh cut off, replaced by a heavy growl. He was literally hammering himself into you, not giving you a single second to recover.

His palm slammed down hard on the back of your head. He roughly shoved your face into the pillows, stripping you of the ability to even turn your head. With his other hand, he gripped your thigh, leaving red marks from his fingers on your skin. You could feel his chest pressing against your back, his body pounding into you in a frenzied rhythm.

An agonizing moan tore from your chest, instantly muffled by the pillow he kept your head pressed into with his heavy hand. His movements grew even harsher. He lifted you higher by your waist, forcing your lower back to arch to its absolute limit, and began to thrust at an angle so intense you almost passed out from the overwhelming sensation.

— Luffy... I... — you tried to say something, but your voice broke into a sob.

He didn't answer. His grip on the back of your head became almost painful; he forced you to take every single one of his strikes completely, allowing not an inch of room to retreat. You felt everything pulsating inside, adjusting to his inhuman pace. Luffy sped up even more, driving himself into you to the very base. The cabin filled with the sounds of heavy breathing and loud, wet slaps.

At some point, he violently grabbed your shoulders, turning your torso around without slipping out of you a single millimeter. His eyes, glowing red in the dim light, locked onto your face. He looked like a wild, primal god who had finally found a way to unleash all the tension that had been building inside him since Egghead.

— Look at me, — he rasped, and it was the only thing he had said this whole time.

His movements became absolutely devastating. You felt everything inside you pulled taut to the breaking point, every cell in your body vibrating to the beat of his insane rhythm. Gear Fifth wasn't just exhausting you — it was driving your senses to their boiling point. The pleasure, mixed with a sharp, almost painful throbbing, flared low in your stomach and crashed over your mind like an avalanche.

You screamed, your fingers locking in a death grip on the crumpled sheets as your muscles spasmed violently around him. The world before your eyes finally shattered into white sparks. Your body arched in profound ecstasy, answering his every crushing thrust. You clung to the sheets, gasping for air from the sheer power of it.

Luffy's whole body tensed, his muscles turning hard as steel. With a low, broken grunt, he delivered his final, deepest, and sharpest thrusts, literally branding you into the bed. You felt that unbelievable, scorching heat filling you up to the brim. He continued to shudder through a massive release, refusing to let go of your hair, pressing you painfully down into the mattress until your shared moans faded into the heavy, stifling air of the cabin.

When the white glow of Gear Fifth finally faded, Luffy didn't immediately pull out. He collapsed on top of you with his full, suddenly heavy weight, pressing you into the mattress. His heart was hammering against your back so hard it felt like it might break his ribs.

— Luffy... — you rasped, trying to gulp down some air. Your voice was hoarse from screaming, and your throat felt raw. — You're... you're going to crush me, you idiot.

He let out a muffled sound — something between an exhale and a hum. Slowly, as if reluctantly, he rolled onto his side, but immediately draped his leg and arm over you, pulling you flush against him in a completely possessive hold.

— And what was that? — you stared into his eyes, trying to catch his gaze in the dim light. — Did you even realize what you were doing? I asked you to slow down, and you decided to just drill right through me with your Gear!

Luffy blinked, his eyes gradually returning to their usual clarity, though sparks of the recent madness still flickered in their depths. He sniffled and gave an awkward smile — that signature, wide grin of his, but it looked different now.

— Well... — he scratched the back of his head with his free hand, not loosening his embrace. — Sorry. It's just... everything inside started pounding like crazy. You came in yourself, locked the door. I didn't think it would be like that. You're not mad, are you?

— Mad? — you scoffed, though everything inside you was still vibrating from the aftershocks of pleasure. — I almost died in there, Luffy! You literally have zero brakes in that Gear. My whole body is going to ache for a week now. How am I supposed to show my face on Elbaf tomorrow? Nami will figure it out immediately just from how I walk.

— Well, we'll tell her you fell off a barrel! — Luffy laughed, but quickly fell silent when you gave him a sharp pinch on his side. — Ow! What was that for?

— For being unbearable, — you pressed your forehead against his shoulder, feeling the exhaustion finally washing over you. — But... thank you. For finally stopping pretending you didn't notice anything.

Luffy went quiet. He hugged you tighter, burying his nose in your hair. — I wasn't pretending, — he mumbled quietly, drifting off to sleep. — It's just... it was complicated. But I'm never letting you go anywhere now. Got it?

You wanted to reply, to make a sarcastic remark about his appetites, but you felt his breathing even out. The Pirate King had passed out instantly, clutching you in his arms like the most precious treasure in the Grand Line.

[latanyalove]

Shiny Souvenirs

Summary: Luffy brings you different souvenirs from an island while you were sick on the ship and doesn't realise he courting you

Song: Into It - Chase Atlantic

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

You had never imagined that a fever could feel like a tide pulling you under, dragging you away from the wind‑blown decks and the endless horizon of the Grand Line.

Yet there you were, curled on a pillow of soft blankets in the galley, the gentle creak of the Thousand Sunny’s timbers the only lullaby you could hear. The world beyond the porthole was a watercolor of sea and sky, the sun a lazy coin sinking behind a line of distant clouds.

You could hear the faint clink of metal and the occasional laugh of the crew, but in your mind the sounds were muffled, as though you were listening through a thick pane of glass.

When you first fell ill, it was a simple cough, a tickle that seemed to belong to the wind that battered the ship on a stormy night. You tried to push through, convinced that “a little cold” would not keep a deckhand from swabbing the deck or a navigator from plotting the next course.

But the cough deepened, your throat burned, and by morning the fever rose like a blaze inside you. Sanji, ever the caretaker, wrapped you in a blanket stitched from the sails and offered a steaming bowl of his signature stew, insisting you rest.

The crew, respecting the unwritten rule that a sick crewmate was not to be left alone on a ship that never truly anchored, took turns watching over you.

It was on the second day of your delirium that Luffy’s silhouette loomed in the doorway, a grin as wide as the ocean itself plastered on his face. He carried something in each hand—something that caught the light and made the shadows dance.

“Hey! You’re awake!” he announced, his voice booming yet oddly gentle. “I got you something!”

You tried to sit up, the world swaying. A fresh wave of nausea hit you, but Luffy’s enthusiasm was a buoy that steadied you, and you managed to prop yourself up on a cushion.

“The island we just left—Pikachu Island—has the coolest stuff! I thought you’d like to see it even if you’re stuck here,” he said, as though the ship itself were a tiny island and you were its only resident.

You blinked, trying to focus through the haze. “Luffy…? Where…?”

He chuckled, a sound that made you feel like a child again, and set the presents down on a low table. The items glimmered in the low light, each catching a different shade of the sun that filtered through the porthole. It was as if he had plucked pieces of the island’s very soul and placed them before you.

There was a small, iridescent shell that seemed to pulse with a faint inner light. The shell’s surface was smooth, the kind of shell you would find washed up on the pristine white sands of the island’s hidden cove. You lifted it, and a faint melody seemed to hum from within—perhaps a memory of the waves.

“Did you know shells can sing?” Luffy asked, eyes alight. “The island’s folk say that if you listen closely, they’ll tell you stories of the sea.”

You smiled despite the pain. “They’re beautiful,” you whispered, the words feeling like a sigh.

Luffy’s grin widened. “That’s not all.” He reached for a second souvenir—a tiny glass bottle, its neck twisted into the shape of a spiral, the glass itself catching the light like a prism. Inside floated a single, perfectly preserved feather, glowing a soft gold.

“It’s from the Moon‑Gale Birds,” he said, as if explaining a secret. “They only appear when the moon is full. The island’s people said they’re the wishes of the sea, so I kept one for you.”

Your eyes lingered on the feather. In your fevered mind, you imagined the birds soaring above the island’s cliffs, their calls a lullaby that blended with the wind. The feather felt warm in your hand, as though it carried some of that distant song.

The third souvenir was a thin, silver bracelet, its links etched with tiny, intricate patterns resembling waves. He pulled it off his own wrist, where it had been dangling, catching the faint light of the hallway.

“Found it in the market near the shore,” he said, as if recounting a treasure hunt. “The vendor said it brings good luck to whoever wears it. I thought… maybe it could keep you safe while you’re stuck on the ship.”

You tried to swallow the words, the fever clawing at your throat. “Thank you, Luffy,” you managed, the gratitude raw and genuine.

He hopped onto the chair next to you, a sudden burst of energy that made the chair wobble. “You think I’m being too cheesy?” he asked, waving a hand at the collection of trinkets. “I just want you to feel like you’re still out there, with the rest of us.”

There was something in his tone—an earnestness that went beyond his usual carefree bravado. It was gentle, almost as if he were saying something he could not quite articulate. You stared at the gifts, each one a small shard of the island, a fragment of a world you could not yet experience.

“Luffy,” you whispered, your voice hoarse, “why did you bring these?”

He scratched the back of his head, a habit you’d seen countless times when he was deep in thought, which was a rare sight for someone who usually acted before he thought. “I… uh… I guess I just… wanted to make sure you weren’t… alone. Even if you’re not sailing with us, you’re still part of the crew, right?”

You felt a flicker of something—an ember hidden beneath the fever’s blaze.

Luffy’s words struck a chord in the marrow of your heart, and even as the room spun, you realized you had been carrying something invisible all this time: a soft, uneasy feeling that had lingered in the corners of your mind each time Luffy’s laugh pierced the silence, each time his arm swung over the deck’s rail as he stared into the horizon.

“You’re always… taking care of us,” you managed, laughing weakly at your own melodrama. “Even when we’re not asking for it.”

He leaned forward, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, a captain’s gotta look after his crew, right? And… I guess… you’re my… my friend, that’s why.”

The word friend hung in the air, heavy enough to be a promise, yet light enough to be a joke. Luffy’s smile faltered for a heartbeat, then returned, brighter than before.

“Friends,” he said, as though sealing a pact. “And maybe… maybe sometimes friends do more.”

You laughed again, this time a sound that came from deep within, as though the fever had loosened the lock on your own heart. “What else?”

Luffy’s face softened, and he placed a hand—large, calloused, and warm—over the silver bracelet. “You’re going to get better,” he said simply. “And when you do, we’ll go back to that island. We’ll eat the fruit they have there, the ones that turn you purple for a day. And we’ll… uh… I’ll give you more shiny things.”

You blinked, the world steadier now. The fever receded a little, as though hearing his promise, and you felt a strange sensation, like a tide pulling you in a different direction. Not away from the ship, but toward him.

The morning sun filtered through the galley windows, painting the wooden beams gold. You opened your eyes to find Sanji already at the table, a plate of fruit laid out before you, each piece glistening like polished stone.

“Good morning, love,” he said, his voice a silk‑smooth whisper that made your cheeks bloom. “We’ve got you a fresh bowl of medicine, and Zoro’s made sure the rest of the crew keeps the noise down, so you can rest.”

You tried to smile. “Thanks, Sanji.”

He placed a gentle kiss on your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment before he leaned back to watch the crew bustling about. The door creaked, and Luffy entered, still clutching the souvenirs, his usual exuberance dimmed just enough to convey an unspoken seriousness.

“Hey, you look better!” he declared, his voice less boisterous, more… excited.

You managed a weak nod, the silver bracelet still glinting on your wrist. It felt heavier now, as if it carried his unvoiced hopes along with its supposed luck.

“Did you sleep well?” Luffy asked, moving to sit beside you, his legs swinging over the chair’s armrest. He placed the shell and feather beside you, as if they were the most precious of treasures.

You nodded. “A little.”

He took a deep breath, as if gathering the courage to speak a language he had never learned. “I… I want you to see a thing,” he said, pulling from his pocket a small, smooth stone. The stone was dark, speckled with flecks that caught the light—like a piece of night sky. He turned it over in his hands, eyes gleaming.

“It’s from the Whispering Cavern,” he explained. “The locals say if you whisper a secret into it, the cavern keeps it safe. So… I thought you could whisper something to it. Anything. Maybe… something you want to say.”

You looked at the stone, its surface cool against your palm. A secret, you thought. The secret that had been lodged in you for weeks, unseen and unsaid.

You inhaled, the scent of the sea filling your nostrils, the salty breeze traveling up the galley from the open porthole. The image of Luffy’s wide, earnest eyes flickered in your mind. The secret slid from your throat, a sigh that seemed to melt into the stone.

“You… think I’ll ever be able to sail again?” you whispered, voice trembling. “I’m scared, Luffy. I don’t want to be a burden.”

The stone seemed to pulse, the flecks of light dancing as if acknowledging your fear. Luffy’s expression softened, his eyes turning from the stone to you.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, “you’re not a burden. You’re… you’re part of this crew. We keep each other afloat, right? If you’re sick, we… I… we protect you. And when you’re better, you’ll be the strongest person on this ship, I promise.”

The words struck you, not as a promise of protection, but as a promise of belonging. The fever, which had made the world seem distant, now faded into a backdrop, and the clarity of his voice resonated in your chest like a wave crashing against a rocky shore.

You smiled, a genuine, breath‑free smile that surprised even you.

“I think…” you began, your throat clearing, “I think I’m starting to understand why you bring all these shiny things.”

Luffy blinked, puzzled. “Oh? ‘Cause they’re pretty?”

You shook your head, feeling the weight of his gaze. “No… because each one… each one tells a story. And you’re… you’re telling me something through them. You’re not just a pirate who eats meat and chases treasure. You care. You think about… about the people around you. And that—”

You stopped, breathless from the words that seemed to climb out in a sudden rush, “—that makes me feel… that maybe I’m not just a sick passenger stuck on a ship. Maybe I’m part of… something bigger.”

Luffy’s eyes crinkled, his mouth forming a grin that was half‑smile, half‑astonishment. “I… I never thought of it like that,” he admitted. “I just… I see stuff, and I like to take them. And… I guess I want to give them to people I… I care about.”

Your heartbeat quickened. The ship’s timbers creaked rhythmically, like a heartbeat itself, and the sea beyond the porthole stretched endlessly, as though inviting you to step out and feel its pulse.

“You care,” you said, voice steadier. “You’ve shown it in the way you… you bring these things, and the way you… you stay with me.”

He swallowed, a sound that seemed to echo through the galley. “Yeah… I do.”

The moment hung between you, delicate as a spider’s web in a storm, and then Luffy did what only he could do—he clapped his hands together, exclaiming, “All right! When you’re feeling better, we’re going to have a feast! I’m going to find the biggest, shiniest fruit on the island and give it to you. And then we’ll have a celebration, with fireworks! And I’ll… I’ll teach you how to throw a Gomu‑Gomu Punch. You’ll be the strongest, almost as strong as me!”

You laughed, the sound pure and unburdened. “You can’t teach me that. I’m not…”

He raised a hand, stopping your words mid‑air, and placed his palm gently over yours. The contact was warm, his pulse steady and comforting against your own.

“Don’t worry about that,” he said, his voice soft enough that you could hear the wind rustle through his hair. “Just… focus on getting better. And know that every time you see something shiny, you’ll think of me, right?”

Your heart hammered in your chest like a drum. “I… I will,” you whispered, not because he asked but because you wanted to.

He beamed, his grin now a sunrise after a long night. “Good! Because I’ve got a lot more shiny things planned. And when you’re back on your feet, we’ll paint the sky with fireworks and tell stories about the island. And… and maybe…”

He trailed off, a shy giggle escaping his mouth—something you’d never seen from the ever‑confident captain of the Straw Hat crew.

You felt the fever evaporate entirely, a cool breeze sweeping away the remnants of the haze.

The world sharpened, the sounds of the ship grew clearer, and you realized that the “shiny souvenirs” were more than just objects—they were Luffy’s way of painting his feelings for you onto the canvas of your heart. . . .

[siphols-blog]

You are my destiny, you share my reverie!

꒰ ˙✧ ˖° 𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ ༘ ˚ ꒱ dealing with a lovesick pirate was rough. Now imagine having to deal with said pirate every day against your will.

꒰ pairings! ꒱ yandere! shanks x reader! & yandere! mihawk x reader! ( separate ) part 2!

꒰ word count! ꒱ؘ : 3.5l

꒰ warnings! ꒱ؘ : toxic relationship, yandere behavior, sub!character & dom! reader, smut, threats, stalking, abuse of power, mentioned killing, betrayal, toxic! reader (at this point is freak4freak) , and mentions of corruption.

꒰ author's note! ꒱ؘ : reader may or may not be suffering from success — they still haven’t decided themselves. This was requested by @alexa-yukiyu! "Te puedo interesar en escribir una parte dos para “You are my destiny, you share my reverie!” 👀" Had sp much fun writing this part as well :D

Red-Haired Shanks

You pulled the sheet closer against your nude body to avoid the low temperature that had infiltrated the room you shared with Shanks. Your face scrunched in irritation just thinking about it. You could be enjoying your hot tub, and your freshly done food by the best of chefs that the marines had to offer in the New World at this moment. Instead, you were in a Yonko’s ship and in the captain’s room. With a tracker stuck to your bracelet, of course.

A soft knock was heard on your cabin door, and you rolled your eyes with annoyance.

“Why do you knock if you are going to barge in either way?” With a sneer now present in your face you angled your face to look away from the door, “Shanks.”

A lighthearted laugh was heard before the door was swung open with vivacity. The infamous pirate ignored the rattle that the door made against its frame due to the force he exerted on it. Shanks had a wide smile on his face looking as refreshed as one could be. If you ignored the dark purple spots that surrounded his neck you could almost mistake him as someone who was just happy in the mornings.

“It’s the principle of the matter my love.” He replied while balancing a plate that held a cup of coffee and carefully cut fruits for you to eat.

You scoffed unamused with his jolly mood this early in the morning. It was time like these where you preferred him hung over. At least then he wasn’t knocking your door down trying to invade your personal space.

“Yeah, of course it is.” You replied back without much bite back in your tone. Finding yourself quite drained from last night’s activities.

Unknowingly to you Shanks had placed the plate down silently on the nightstand and was now watching with hungry eyes the way the sheet you currently had draped over yourself slightly fell down to reveal your back. The same back which had red and puffy scratches from last night.

He swallowed thickly and realized his mouth had become dry very, very fast. He let his hand reach out to touch the side of your face he could still reach, and almost beamed when you didn’t immediately retaliate by biting his hand. ( although you had learned since the first time you attempted to do so that this action only served to spur him into babying you for being ‘scared’ and ‘vulnerable )

Shanks caressed your cheek and let it trail down to the nape of your neck so he could reach across and plant a soft kiss in your cheek.

“My love, I brought you breakfast.” You sighed and turned to face him with the disapproval of somebody who had been kidnapped and now forced to interact with said kidnapper.

You slapped his hand away with a glare and avoided looking at his lovesick face that had been making you feel weird lately. You scooted over the left side of the bed to put as much distance between the two of you as possible. However, Shanks was not somebody who just let himself be too far away from you. Which is why he stood up and walked quickly to where you were now seating at.

What you didn’t expect was his immediate wince after taking a step closer to you. Your eyebrows furrowed in what you would deny was concern as you watched his face closely to catch the discomfort that flashed through it momentarily.

You shifted in your side of the bed as Shanks quickly took a seat next to you. Your eyes trailing over his body as if searching for an injury he may be hiding. However, your eyes went back to the bruises that adorned his neck from last night. Could he be hurting from — ?

Surely not right? You squinted your eyes suspiciously as memories from last night started to creep back to the front of your mind.

The air in the rom was charged with tension from the two of you. However, both of you were a little too entranced with each other to notice such small detail.

Low groans escaped the man under you as he looked up through his eyelashes who were covered with the overstimulated tears that were still falling down his face. His hands clung desperately to your back until they left angry red lines that would mark your back for days to come.

Shanks ignored the creaking of the bed where both of you were lying on top of to focus on you. His body was shaking from the stimulation it was receiving from you. Your hands trailed down his chest and he instinctively flinched back from the sensation before whining for more. Truly a man who didn’t know what he wanted more.

You scoffed at his reaction before pinching one of his nipples to hear him whimper one again. Truly, this man abducts you from your home and job, yet has the audacity to act as if he is the one being debauched. He’s luck you find him pathetic enough to be amusing.

Your thrusts became more erratic as you chased your own pleasure. You huffed in amusement as Shanks demanded you to keep going, almost on the verge of begging ( something you doubted he would mind ) to keep going faster. Your thighs burned and you knew you would feel them aching tomorrow, but you were too far gone to care.

Okay, so perhaps you had gone overboard last nigh. But it had been something that Shanks had implored you to continue doing. There was no way he would be aching the morning after right? You narrowed your eyes at his face in suspicion. Your mind seemed to be trying to warn you of something, but you weren’t too sure of what.

Instead, of trying to get to the bottom of the suspicious feeling at the pit of your stomach you grabbed him by the arm and yanked him closer. Not because you wanted him closer — the day that occurred was the day pigs fly — but rather to see if you could see him wince from such an abrupt movement.

And just as you suspected you saw Shanks, one of the emperors of the sea and one of the strongest pirates of the current era, wince slightly. You did not doubt for a second that it had been due to the nightly activities you both had been partaking on lately. For some reason a wave of irritation washed through you at the idea that Shanks had been trying to hide any sort of ache or injury he had received as a result of you.

“Idiot! You’re feeling bad, and you dare to act so flippant?” You scolded with furrowed eyebrows. Your hand reached and took a hold of his cheek and pulled as if you were reprimanding a little kid rather than a grown man who seemed to not be able to take care of himself. You watched as he chuckled sheepishly, and apologized with a titled head. While you hovered over the pirate you considered a danger to your mental health and his own likehood of survival you failed to notice his victorious smile that he was hiding as he leaned his head onto your shoulders.

What can a pirate like him do to explain himself except the truth? Shanks may have been over reacting in front of you, yes. However, in his defense this was how he manages to be closer to you! There’s specific buttons he has to press to get you to lower your guard. While there’s others he should avoid completely to avoid you getting angry or worse! Avoidant and silent at him.

The main one he had noticed that worked like a charm was the injured one. A couple of weeks ago he had dragged you with him to a bar. Knowing that there was no way you would be able to leave as the island was one of his territories. However, he hadn’t expected for you to get so cozy with another pirate that just so happened to dock in said port.

Cozy enough to playfully place your hand in their bicep and ask about their ‘treausures’. As if some no-name pirate could ever compare to what Shanks could offer you. His joyful mood had been trampeled over, and so did his apetite for food. Once his crew saw the scene they already knew what would take place. Many of them had been witness to the frenzy their captain had worked himself into just trying to get you in his grasp, but somebody trying to take you away from him? They wouldn’t be suprised if this became a bloodbath very quickly.

As such many of them discrately changed their posture to make it easier to access their weapons. They watched with keen eyes how their captain approached you and the other unfortunate one at the bar and placed his hand on the pirate’s shoulders.

What unfolded was unexpected to many. The pirate had failed to recognize the man in front of him. Perhaps it had to do with the amount of drinks they had tanked in the afternoon, or maybe it had been stupidity. Either way it had ended with the pirate daring to smash a bottle of wine over Shanks’ face. ( Later the crew would realize that such a slow and feeble attack would have been something that their captain would have been able to dodge with his eyes closed, and that the reason he had let it land for a specific reason )

You coughed out the rum you had been sipping in suprise after seeing Shanks drenched in the remaining wine that had been left in the bottle alongside part of the glass from the bottle. Your eyes were left widened as you rushed out of your seat to hover uncertainly over Shanks who seemed to now be silently pondering his next move.

“Shanks! Did it not occur to you to dodge?” Even while you were chastising him you were trying to get the remaining pieces of glass out of his clothes and hair. Your attention now completely captured by the man in red. What you didn’t notice then was the way gears would start turning on Shanks’ brain. Like a dog who had found that ringing a bell would make their owners give them new treats.

The pirate? The news briefly touched on a rookie pirate and his ship being sunk down in the New World, but not many paid attention to such small news compared to other more important matters that were occuring around the world.

As such everytime that Shanks felt a little restless when it came to your lack of attention he may oveplay some of his injuries. Just a tad bit, really.

But really shouldn’t happiness be the end goal for all couples? If he used specific methods to keep you placent who could blame him? You had a lot going for you. Too much if you asked him. Enough that if you could he didn’t doubt you would ditch him like a rusty anchor that only served to drag you down.

And Shanks was many things, but he would never deny being a greedy, selfish man when it came to you and your affections. He had only survived in the past by thinking of how he could get closer to you, and the ways he could enjoy your warmth. If somebody took that from him — well, many would suffer his wrath until he could see his lover once again.

Dracule Mihawk

At least it wasn’t public humiliation.

That was all you could really say to make yourself feel better about the situation you found yourself in.

Although you had initially compared it to fancy babysitting, you couldn’t help but feel as if the dynamics that had developed were widely different. In short words? You were treated like a fancy pet by Mihawk.

Not that he would lower himself into admitting it. Rather he seemed rather fond of pushing your limits now that you had — perhaps, broken his trust.

“A shame you don’t want to take a sit on my lap — I suppose I’ll have to decline the next mission from such heartbreak.”

“My beloved, I do think this trip to is necessary before the mission. But if you wish for me to take a faster path then you should give me a reward, no?”

“Do you doubt sleeping on the same bed is vital to the assignment?”

“I suppose that if you insist on going out with those individuals you surround yourself with then I should come as well.”

For goodness sake you couldn’t breathe without him not staring you down! Which yeah you get it. You betrayed him and may have broken his heart, but everybody goes through such phase at the end of the day!

( Not that you dared to tell him such thing to his face )

Your professionalism was slowly and patiently chipped away by the man now labeled as the ‘strongest swordsman in the world’. Refusing to let you leave without threatening the livelihood of those around you, making both of you act as a couple whether you like it or not, and purposely causing you to be flustered on purpose. That man was having the time of his life being glued by your side, and it was not what you expected at all.

Especially with your reunion being one of the most humiliating moments of your life. Not only had he forced you to get on your knees and beg for forgiveness like an ex-lover who had cheater on their partners, but had also made you sit on his life and apologize for your deceit while he trapped you from leaving by having a tight grip on your thighs that fell around him.

You expected a more drastic punishment from the man you had use, but strangely enough he seemed satisfied by putting a metaphorical leash on you. ( Not that you doubted Mihawks wouldn’t put a collar on you if you gave him a reason to )

However, the one thing you did not expect this man to make a habit was the teasing. A kiss near the ear, a hand too high resting in your thigh, a heated look across the room. All of these things leaving you more than just bothered. Which was why you had expected him to make more direct moves. ( not that you wanted him to do that or anything! It’s just — it would make your job to be near him easier, no? ) Instead, it was as if Mihawk had made it his mission to tease you into oblivion.

The part of it all? It was working.

Now you were feeling like a pevert! I mean yeah sure, you did have to look past the amount of boodshed he seemed determined to drag you into in every mission he attended, the amount of suspicious blood stains in his shoes everytime you both docked into a new island, and of course you couldn’t forget the weekly bodily harm threats against the other marines you worked with — however! Could anybody really blame you when you were one bad day away from jumping onto that man’s bones.

Whether that was to kill him or drag him to bed was still up to debate in the council.

Those were your thoughts a week ago, and if you could you would laugh yourself into hysterics for thinking you had a choice in this at all.

It all started going downhill once Mihawk got assigned to a mission in the East Blue where he predictably dragged you to. This time it was regarding a pirate that was dipping his feet onto the drug manufacturing business a little too loudly, and being loud in that type of business just equaled stupidity.

Usually he dragged you around to complete the mission whether you like it or not was the least of his worries. Matter of fact the only choice you had in the subject was with how much force he would need to drag you around with. However, this time he did leave your side. ( mutters of a annoying warlord who only knew how to cause problems — whatever that meant ) Leaving you alone at a hotel with only your thoughts to guide your decisions. Not a smart idea.

Because the moment you started hovering near the idea that you may be missing the man that had made the last months in your job miserable you decided to hit the bar. Not your smartest choice, but compared to the ones you had made in the last year it certainly didn’t hit top ten.

Which was why you strolled into the bar as if you owned it with money that was not yours and asked the bartneder for his strongest drink. Perhaps you gained a few odd looks, but you were too much into your episoede of denial that you could not bring yourself to care even if you tried to. Your current mission? Get drunk enough you would drown whatever foolish thoughts had managed to worm themselves into your brain.

You could not be compromised into your assignment. A breach of the contract if you had ever bothered to read it before signing it, and with the worst of them all.

Drink after drink your hand didn’t tremble to pick up a new one after downing a cup after the other. One hour in and the bartender seemed to finally start hesitating in accepting your request. Your vision was blurry and you could barely speak. You felt the incoming headache slowly worming its way in, but you had finally stopped feeling the pit in your stomach so all was good in life.

Then your worst paralysis demon came back to haunt you. A slow opening of the bar door had every client and staff rigid on the spot. A man easily recognizable walked through the doors like a reaper coming to get his dues.

Mihawk strolled into the bar with a blank face. It was truly as if this was his average day of the year. Something that was far off for the wrong reasons. After all, his days were far more absurd whether he sought said chaos out or not.

The swordsman did not let his eyes drift away from the person he had been looking for. Said marine was currently slumped over the table next to the bar while still clutching a cheap looking bottle of wine. Mihawk felt his eye twitch at the idea of you drinking yourself into unconsciousness with cheap wine. He knew you knew about his wine habit so why bother coming here instead of asking for bottles of wines from him?

Mihawk didn’t let out the sigh he wanted to let out go as he reached for you, and caressed the top of your hair. He was vaguely aware everybody watched him with wariness, but nobody stopped him when reached under your legs to carry you. ( had he been a lesser man he would have let his murderous thoughts win and make everybody here regret letting you be taken by a possibly dangerous man, because it could’ve not been him and then for sure heads would roll )

Instead, he simply adjusted his hold on you so you could rest your head on his chest in a more comfortable position. The walk to the hotel wouldn’t take long, but Mihawk was in no hurry to stop this unusual moment of you willingly being near him.

He looked up at the full moon in the sky, and wondered if you knew the noose he had slowly started tying. Your so called ‘friends’? You hadn’t contacted them in months, and neither had you been able to respond your family’s correspondence that he fed to the sea. There was no use to even mention your supervisor who had now started to give up the idea of you ever coming back to the position you once held as long as Mihawk stayed by your side.

This was exactly how he liked it, and would not accept it any other way. It was obvious your choices had some outside influences which was why he was making sure to cut those weeds down before they could become a more annoying issue.

He titled his head down to look at your face closely after hearing you mumble something. Mihawk let his lips stretch into a small smirk, and pretended to not hear you curse out his name as well as his family tree and future bloodline.

If that’s what you wished to focus on he would not press. Love and hate were closer than people thought, after all.

That may have been the initial reason why your betrayal had stung so deeply. He would have accepted your involvement in this mission as long as you had shown up. ( don’t misunderstand these thoughts — either way he would have killed everybody else to teach you a lesson, but it would have made a darker part of his mind quietly pleased to see how far you would go for him )

Mihawk refused to receive the indifference you attempted to show him by not even giving him the grace of showing up to his ambush. So he made sure there wouldn’t be any other time where you could turn your back on him. He would have your eyes on him. No matter what the cost of it would be.

Plus, you owed him right? Taking his first night was a big deal, after all. Putting himself in such a vulnerable position for the sake of making you be closer should be rewarded, no?

The pleasure you brought him would not be a one time thing. He loved you too much to not give every piece he had of himself to satisfy you. However, he refused to let you have the satisfaction of it being easily given. Once you begged him with that sweet voice of yours he’ll gladly give it to you. ( But Mihawk certainly wouldn’t mind if tears fell from your eyes once again — just for him )

He pulled you closer as you kept a tight hold of his sleeve in one of your hands. As if he would ever go far away.

Ever.

[fandomfablesunleashed]

Pieces of You

Law x f!reader (she/her)

Modern AU, angst, a bit of fluff, children, hospital, illness (treated!), mention of pregnancy (if you feel I should add something, let me know)

It was kind of a request and was brainstormed with lovely @chillerkiller:

A one-night stand with Lami’s best friend occurred a year ago. The friend never told Law he had children, and Lami also doesn’t know the parentage. Until one of the twins ends up in the hospital.

Words: 6.7k

I want to preface this story by saying I’m not very familiar with all the medical terminology. I did try to research things properly, but I can’t guarantee everything is completely accurate. The same goes for writing kids—I don’t have much hands-on experience with them, so I relied mostly on research and general knowledge. If I made any mistakes, feel free to point them out so I can fix them in the story.

@chillerkiller it’s finally here! ❤️

Honestly, I struggled a bit with this one (but don’t worry, it’s not on you or anything). It’s not a story I would come up with on my own, but it turned out to be excellent writing practice, so thank you. I genuinely appreciate it and your patience with this. It ended up being longer, though, so hopefully that makes up for it 😀

I might have gotten a little carried away while writing. I originally thought it would be more angsty, but it ended up a bit softer and fluffier than planned. It’s written from Law’s POV. Initially I wanted to alternate perspectives, but his voice kind of pulled me in and I stuck with it. Also, if I had written from reader POV, I felt like I would’ve needed to focus more on the child’s illness and caregiving, and I didn’t feel confident enough to portray that accurately. I kept Lami as you wished, but the rest of his family backstory kind of checks out, so I mentioned briefly him taking care of her.

Hope you don't mind and you will enjoy it 🤞

English is not my first language

Masterlist

Sunlight spilled across the smooth floors of the cardiac wing, catching the edges of crisp white lab coats and polished shoes. The faint hum of monitors blended with the rolling of carts and the shuffle of nurses moving from room to room. Law strode through it all, clipboard in hand.

A nurse approached, holding a stack of updated lab results. “Good morning, Doctor,” she said brightly.

Law gave a curt nod, barely lifting his eyes from the page. “Thank you,” he murmured, already moving on.

A cheerful voice broke his concentration.

“Hey, Law,” said Shachi. “Mind if I steal you for a quick lunch?”

Law didn’t lift his eyes from the chart. “Ten minutes.” 

Shachi glanced at the charts, following Law’s gaze. “Shouldn’t you have your break right now? You know some people actually sometimes eat.”

“And some know when to mind their own business.”

“Not me though.” Shachi joked.

Law allowed himself a small smirk before returning to the charts. He didn’t need lunch. There was always another patient, another heartbeat to monitor, another surgery to plan.

 “Come on, it’s surprisingly calm now. You may not get a chance to eat later.”

The cafeteria was quieter than the rest of the hospital, the midday rush not yet begun. Only a few scattered doctors occupied the tables, hunched over coffee cups and half-eaten meals, murmuring about charts and upcoming surgeries.

Law sat across from Shachi with a black coffee and a sandwich he had yet to touch. His phone lay beside it, screen dark, coat draped neatly over the back of his chair.

Shachi noticed immediately.

“You know,” he said, pointing lazily at the sandwich, “food works better when you actually eat it.”

Law lifted the cup instead, taking a slow sip of coffee. “I am eating.”

“That’s drinking.”

“Close enough.”

Shachi chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “You’re unbelievable. 

Law ignored the jab, eyes drifting briefly across the room. His mind was already halfway back in the cardiac wing, running through the list of patients scheduled for the afternoon. Post-op monitoring. Medication adjustments. One potential complication he wanted to double-check before the next surgery.

“…and then Bepo just—are you even listening?” Shachi’s voice cut through, half-annoyed, half-amused.

Law blinked once, slow, as if surfacing. “Mm.”

That was the extent of it.

“You’re unbelievable. We’re on break, you know. That thing people do where they don’t think about work?”

“It’s better to focus on work than idle nonsense,” came the flat reply.

“And your beloved comic books are not idle nonsense?” Shachi teased lightly.

Law didn’t respond. He simply picked up the sandwich and the empty cup, pushing himself up from the chair.

“We will talk later.”

Later, he met his idiotic friends at the bar—pestered into showing up after far too many ignored calls and increasingly creative insults. In the end, he’d given in. Not because he wanted to sit in that crowded pub, but because they were good friends. The kind that got under his skin and stayed there, and even he knew that he could not go through his life truly alone. 

The bar was loud: glasses clinking, laughter spilling too easily, warmth that felt almost intrusive after all day in hospital corridors full of fluorescent lights.

“By the way, the weirdest thing happened today,” Penguin began, leaning forward like he was about to announce a conspiracy. “There’s a baby under my care—”

“Dude, let’s not talk about work,” Shachi whined immediately, waving a hand as if physically pushing the topic away.

“And you shouldn’t be disclosing patient info,” Law cut in sharply, not even looking up from his drink.

“Just let me finish, will you?” Penguin groaned. “Anyway—the kid looks like a mini you, Law. I swear. I’ve seen your baby pictures. That baby looks exactly like you.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I swear!” Penguin insisted, pointing as if that alone validated him.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Law muttered, finally taking a sip.

Shachi squinted at him. “Are you sure it isn’t yours? Any random hookup happening, like… a year ago or so?” He grinned immediately after, aware he was provoking a reaction.

“I would know if I had a child,” Law replied flatly.

The conversation drifted back into noise and laughter, but Law didn’t follow it anymore. The words had lodged somewhere deeper than they should have, snagging on something buried and deliberately ignored.

That went to the place he preferred not to revisit. Your face scrunched in pleasure, back arched while you moaned so sweetly. The way you’d insisted that you were on birth control. That it was fine. That there was nothing to worry about.

He had believed you. Or perhaps he had simply chosen not to think too hard about it.

And to both of you agreeing not to let it happen again. 

Not with you—his little sister’s friend, orbiting too close to lines he normally never allowed to blur. And especially not with someone whose image haunted his mind far longer than it ever should have.

Curiosity is an insistent trait that he could not get rid of.  It was the same instinct that had pushed him into medicine in the first place, the same one that kept him in operating rooms long after exhaustion should have driven him home. And, inconveniently, it was the same impulse that had him stepping into the ICU the very next morning instead of avoiding the thought altogether.

“Curious, aren’t you?” Penguin joked as Law appeared in the unit doorway.

“I had my rounds here anyway,” Law replied evenly.

Penguin tilted his head, studying him with obvious amusement. “Come on, I will show you.”

They went to the room, and there it was, the smallest little thing. He knew everything about children, of course—growth charts, vitals, pathologies, the meticulous science of bodies still learning how to exist. He understood them clinically, in the detached way medicine demanded.

But he had never allowed himself to imagine one. Not his. Not anyone’s. Not a version of a future where something so delicate depended on him. He had never considered himself suited for it.

He would not be a good partner—a father, less so. That felt like something that should be reserved for people who weren’t him. It would be cruel, he had always thought, to bring something so fragile into a world like this. A world that cut, and failed, and demanded too much.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling that the child truly looked like him when he was young. Not just vaguely, not just in the way all infants resembled one another. It had to be a coincidence. A trick of perception. An illusion planted and reinforced by Penguin’s careless remark. Nothing more.

He was about to scoff it off, turn away, and let the thought die the way all unnecessary thoughts did, but the moment he shifted, he stopped.

Because there, standing in the doorway, was a familiar face he had been trying, in the most efficient way possible, to forget.

You. Wild-eyed. Shocked into stillness. And in your arms—another small creature, cradled carefully against your chest.

Penguin cleared his throat, suddenly too aware of the tension in the room. “Hi. I just brought Doctor Trafalgar for consultation. Nothing to worry about,” he lied easily.

“Right,” you managed, though your voice barely landed. Your eyes stayed on Law, as if looking away might make this unreal.

Law didn’t react to you at first. Instead, he stepped forward, already reaching for the patient chart Penguin handed him. The motion was automatic—controlled, practiced, safe.

“Nothing to worry about?” you repeated flatly. “He is a heart surgeon. Is surgery necessary?”

Your worried voice brought him back to your face. You were just as beautiful as he remembered—if anything, more so—but now it was tempered by exhaustion.

“If we deem it necessary, we will ensure it will be successful,” he said at last.

Normally he would not say something like that to the patient or family members. Because he knew better than anyone that medicine did not deal in guarantees. Words like that were dangerous, too easy to cling to and too cruel when they broke. No matter how much they cared, how hard they tried, there wasn’t always a way to win against illness. Effort didn’t equal outcome, and skill didn’t always tip the scales. Sometimes everything was done right, and it still wasn’t enough. There wasn’t always a way to save someone, and he had learned that lesson far too well.

Even Penguin seemed to notice it. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, but he said nothing, wisely choosing silence in the presence of a mother of patient inside the room.

Law closed the chart with a controlled motion.

Then he turned and left, deliberately ignoring you, ignoring Penguin, and the entire situation as if it could be compartmentalized away like everything else. He forced his focus back toward his duties for the day, trying to silence his mind and, more importantly, his heart.

But only if life were that merciful.

He was already leaving when he had the unfortunate timing of running into his little sister, Lami.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, slowing just enough to acknowledge her.

“Helping out my friend,” she replied brightly.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it. Maybe he had managed to raise her right, in his own uneven, improvised way.

“Good. You should.”

Lami immediately stuck her tongue out at him, entirely unbothered. “You don’t have to parent me anymore, you know.”

Still like a child, he thought. Still impossibly unchanged in all the ways that mattered.

He often wondered how she had managed to stay so bright—so endlessly cheerful, so stubbornly warm—despite everything they had lived through. She had been far too young when their world collapsed. Too young to lose a family. Too young for him to become someone she could fully rely on. And he had never been the kind of person meant to be a role model. 

But perhaps, while he had been forced to become tough, realistic, and grounded in order to keep her safe and cared for through life, she had become the sunlight to shine at least a bit of light into his.

“… So she nearly goes no contact, apparently gets pregnant, and now it turns out her baby is sick,” Lami continued. “Like, I was so pissed when she stopped answering me, but how can I not help now? Especially when the father is a douchebag and a no-show.”

That caught his attention immediately.

“Well—you mean…?” He felt a weird knot in his throat while saying your name.

“Yeah,” she confirmed. “How do you know?”

“Room 237,” he replied without hesitation.

“Ah.” She snapped her fingers. “Right, you met her a few times. Wow, you really have a great memory. Thanks!”

And she dipped. He didn't know what to do with himself. So he did what he knew best. Shut off.

Later, alone in his apartment, he picked up his phone and opened a thread he revisited far too often. There were only a few messages.

Law, right? It was nice talking to you. I’m so sorry I took your jacket. It wasn’t on purpose, I swear. How can I get it back? Should I give it to Lami or should we meet?

It had been after that meeting.

It was at Lamis's housewarming party after she moved out of his place to get her own. He hadn’t wanted to go. But she had convinced him anyway. As she usually did.

The apartment had been full—too loud and way too crowded. People he didn’t know, conversations he had no interest in joining. Even Shachi, Penguin, and Bepo hadn’t been enough to make it comfortable.

So at some point, he had slipped away to the balcony. You had been there, busy avoiding the crowd for a while too. He recognized you—he and Lami were close, after all, and over time he’d met most of her friends here and there, you included.

You had been the one to start talking. He couldn’t even remember the exact topic now. Something trivial, probably. Something that should not have mattered. And yet it had been… easy. Easier than it should have been. At some point he had even laughed.

Then you had gone back inside to retrieve your jacket.

Only to return empty-handed, slightly flustered, explaining that some couple had decided the couch was a convenient place to forget everyone else existed. You’d looked mildly horrified at the situation, and he had immediately offered to get it back.

You had refused. So he had done something he still couldn’t quite rationalize. He had taken off his own jacket and given it to you instead.

He still remembered how snug you had looked in it, and how the moment had been interrupted when someone at the party called you over—your friend suddenly needing to leave and asking for you. You had gone with her without hesitation, his jacket still draped over your shoulders as you disappeared into the night.

You texted him the moment you got home and realized that in your rush you forgot to give it back. He should have simply told you to pass it to Lami the next time you saw her.

But he hesitated. Because he remembered, years ago, Lami making him promise—half serious, half threatening—that he wouldn’t get involved with any of her friends. At the time, he hadn’t intended to. Not even remotely. But she had said it with enough conviction that he had agreed just to end the conversation. And he had no desire to risk her scrutiny now

 Besides, that was just being nice or something, so that's why he messaged back:

I can drop by for it on my way from work.

You sent him an address, and he showed up. 

It was supposed to be exactly that—nothing more than a quick stop, a polite exchange, a return, before the rest of his day resumed.

But when he arrived, you hadn’t simply handed it over. You had paused. Looked at him. Then, almost hesitantly, invited him inside for dinner. He had been hungry. That had been enough of a reason to say yes.

After a surprisingly good dinner, he didn’t refuse a drink, and before he fully registered how the evening had shifted, his glass was half-finished on the table and you were beneath him on your couch.

He remembered telling you, carefully and without ambiguity, that he was not someone suited for relationships. And he remembered you meeting it just as calmly, assuring him that you weren’t looking for one either. 

After that, you went your separate ways.

You did text him again about three months later.

Hey can we talk?

He saw it. Read it. And did nothing.

Then he got a few calls while in surgery. He briefly thought about calling back. But the thought never fully formed into action. Instead, he chose the easier path. And so he wrote one final message.

I told you. I do not want a relationship. Don’t contact me.

He should have called back. Should have asked what you needed. And what unsettled him most, in hindsight, was not that he ignored it, but that, at the time, the possibility of it being anything else hadn’t even crossed his mind.

The next day, he somehow found himself back in the ICU again.

And there you were. Seated quietly at your child’s bedside. Your shoulders were drawn tight, the kind of tension that came from hours—days—of holding yourself together, exhaustion pressed down and carefully hidden. Nearby, another small figure slept in a stroller.

“Lurking?” Penguin’s voice cut in from beside him, far too amused for the hour.

Damn him.

“I’m not lurking,” Law replied harshly. “That’s Lami’s friend. She asked me to check on them.”

It was, technically, not a lie. Not entirely.

Penguin signed. “Coarctation of the aorta,” he answered after a glance at the chart. “We’re talking congenital narrowing—left untreated, it’ll compromise perfusion. Hypertension above the constriction, weak pulses below. Fully operable, but timing matters.”

He had half a mind to jump in, saying he would operate. But he didn’t. It wasn’t his specialty. Still, that didn’t stop him from doing what he always did when something mattered more than it should have.

If he couldn’t be the one to operate, then he would ensure the person who did would not fail—a pediatric cardiac surgeon with the right experience was brought in without delay.

He had finished his shift. And yet he was there again.

Standing a little apart from the flow of staff and patients, gently rocking a crying baby in your arms.

And you looked just as worn. Tiredness clung to your face, heavy under your eyes, and he noticed something he would have preferred not to notice—that your eyes were slightly glassy, as if you had been holding everything together for far too long already.

“You should rest,” he said

You let out a quiet, humorless scoff without looking up. “Not really possible.”

“I didn’t know you worked here,” you  said finally, still cooing at your daughter. 

“I transferred lately.”

“Right.”

He should ask. He really should. But the words didn’t come in. Instead he said: “Don’t worry too much. We have a great pediatric cardiologist. She’s got it. I swear.”

You finally glanced at him then, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion. “I thought doctors shouldn’t make empty promises.”

“I’m not.” 

Before anything else could follow, someone called your name down the corridor.  Your gaze flicked down to the still-fussing baby in your arms, then back toward the approaching pediatric cardiologist.

Law stepped closer without thinking.

“Just let me hold her,” he said.

You hesitated.

“I’ve got it,” he added, voice steady. “I may not work in pediatrics, but I’m still a doctor. Go. I’ll be here.”

So you carefully transferred your daughter into his arms.

The baby shifted immediately, unsettled by the change, tiny cries building again as warmth and familiarity disappeared all at once.

The pediatric cardiologist gave a small nod to Law as she guided you away.

And just like that, he was left standing in the corridor. With a small, fragile bundle of life in his arms.

He knew, objectively, what to do. He had read enough, seen enough, understood enough about infants to pass any exam on the subject. But knowing was not the same as doing.

Then, awkwardly at first, he began to sway.

Small, controlled movements. The kind he had once done without thinking, years ago, with a far smaller version of stubborn determination in his life.

His voice followed a moment later—low, hesitant at first, as though he didn’t quite believe he was doing it. He told a story. One he hadn’t thought of in years. The one Lami loved as a kid. A ridiculous little tale he had told her back then just to get her to settle down.

He didn’t even realize he remembered it so well until the words were already out. The baby’s crying softened. Breathing evening out, little by little, against his chest.

You came back a few minutes later, slower this time, as if bracing yourself for what you might see. Your gaze found him immediately. Then your daughter. Then the way she was no longer crying.

“She calmed down,” came your quiet voice.

“Yeah,” he replied.

He didn’t immediately let go. For a moment longer, he simply held her there, as if ensuring the fleeting calm wouldn’t break the second he moved. Only then did he adjust his grip, easing the baby back toward you without disturbing her sleep.

“Everything all right?” he asked, slipping his hands into his pockets, unsure what to do with them now that they were empty. The absence felt strangely noticeable. He tried not to dwell on it, on how he missed the quiet weight of the baby in his arms.

“The operation should be tomorrow,” you said.

“She’s truly the best pediatric cardiologist.”

“I heard you made sure we got her,” you added, still quiet.

“I…” he began, then stopped, exhaling through his nose as if discarding the first attempt entirely. “You shouldn’t be handling this alone.”

“I got it,” you answered immediately.

“I’m not doubting that,” he said, a fraction sharper than intended.

You didn’t answer. Law held your gaze, as if waiting for something to form between you that might give this moment direction. Nothing did. So he exhaled once, turned and walked away.

He showed up the next day on his off day. Lami by his side.

She had a way of inserting herself into situations like this, especially when she decided someone mattered, and somehow, between her stubborn persistence and an argument he hadn’t bothered to fully engage with, she had managed to convince you to let her take your daughter for a few hours.

Now you were sitting in the hospital lounge, too still, as if your body had simply given up pretending it wasn’t exhausted. The coffee in front of you was untouched at first, until he quietly pushed it closer.

The hospital never stopped making noise, but this part of it felt strangely muted—like the world had narrowed down to the sound of your breathing and the distant, unbearable truth of what was happening beyond the walls.

He knew what was happening behind those doors without needing to be inside them.

At some point, your voice broke the silence.

“Why?” you asked weakly.

He didn’t look at you immediately. There were too many answers to that question. So he chose the simplest one.

“Don’t question it.”

So you didn't say anything else. You just nodded slightly, as if you didn’t have the strength to do anything else, and turned your attention back to the doors again.

A sound slipped out of you before you could stop it. You covered your mouth with your hand as your shoulders shook once, then again, the restraint finally giving way under the weight of everything you had been holding alone for too long.

Tears came fast after that. Silent at first, then not. You bent forward slightly, trying to contain it, but there was nothing contained about it anymore.

Law didn’t move. His first instinct was procedural. Stabilize. Offer something grounding. Call someone if needed. But none of those applied here. You weren’t a patient. You were someone waiting for a door to decide what kind of future you would walk into.

He set the coffee down, then stepped closer. From his pocket, he pulled a small pack of tissues and offered one to you without a word. You took it, almost absentmindedly, barely registering the gesture through your tears.

For a moment, he didn’t dare move again. Then, slowly, his hand came to rest lightly on your arm. He didn’t speak. Didn’t offer reassurance he couldn’t guarantee. He just stayed there—awkward, but present—while you cried beside him, his vision faintly blurred, stubbornly refusing to steady no matter how hard he willed it.

A few hours later, the surgery finally concluded.

“All went well.” 

The words had barely settled before you broke again—relief this time, sharp and overwhelming. Before either of you could think it through, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

Law stiffened for a fraction of a second.

Then, slowly, he brought a hand up and gently patted your back. He ignored the curious looks from the staff. None of that mattered right now.

After a moment, when your breathing steadied just enough, you seemed to realize what you’d done. You quickly stepped back, wiping at your face, putting space between you again.

“How is he?” Law asked, turning to the other surgeon.

She hesitated. “I’m sorry, Dr. Trafalgar—you know I can only disclose details like that to family.”

The words were expected. Still, something about them landed sharper than they should have.

He gave a small nod, already stepping back, already preparing to leave, when you caught his sleeve.

“Please,” you said, your voice unsteady. “Tell him too. I’m scared I’ll miss something important.”

She hesitated, obviously weighing protocol against the situation in front of her.

The look he gave her was enough—quiet, direct, unmistakably firm.

She exhaled, relenting. “Alright… I suppose, given you’re a surgeon here as well…”

That was all the justification she needed.

The surgeon went into detail, and Law forced himself to set everything else aside, slipping fully into his professional mindset. Any emotion that tried to surface was pushed down

He asked the right questions. Precise, thorough—covering more than what was usually explained to a patient’s family. By the time she finished, he had a clearer picture than most ever would. And the most important part was plainly stated. 

“Thank you,” he said at last, a quiet note of relief threading through his otherwise steady tone.

As soon as the surgeon left, he turned back to you.

“He’s going to be alright.”

Your cheeks were still damp, tear tracks not yet dried, and you nodded quickly—like if you didn’t, the words might somehow stop being true.

You looked so lost, so vulnerable that it tugged at his heartstrings. So he did what he always did when something threatened to reach too far beneath the surface. He ignored it.

Footsteps approached, breaking the moment. Lami returned, a small, bundled Kora in her arms, already talking as she crossed back toward you. The shift was immediate—your attention snapping to your daughter, your hands instinctively reaching for her.

A nurse appeared soon after, informing you that you could see your son. Law stepped back without being asked, without drawing attention to it. Quietly removing himself from the center of something that hadn't really been his place to begin with. You didn’t notice. Or maybe you did, but you had more important things to focus on now. 

“You seem to care an awful lot,” Penguin commented, far too casually for the weight of it.

They had shown up unannounced, as usual. Now they were spread across Law’s apartment like they belonged there. Penguin and Shachi taking over the couch, while Bepo had claimed the armchair. 

“I told you,” Law replied, not looking up from where he stood by the counter nursing a drink, “she’s Lami’s friend.”

Penguin didn’t let it go. “That’s the only reason?”

Silence stretched just long enough to become noticeable. Law’s grip on the glass tightened slightly.

“They might be mine.” 

“What?!”

The word hit him from three directions at once.

Law exhaled slowly, like saying it once had already been more than he intended. “I hooked up with her about a year ago.”

Shachi blinked. “Wait—what?”

“The timing matches,” Law added flatly. “That’s all.”

“And?” Penguin pressed immediately.

“And what?” Law shot back, irritation creeping in.

“What do you mean ‘and what’?” Shachi leaned forward. “Did you talk to her about it?!”

“No.”

Penguin frowned. “You’re just… not going to say anything?”

“She already has enough on her plate.”

“That’s not an answer,” Shachi pushed. “If they’re yours—”

“If they are,” Law cut in sharply, “then she didn’t want me involved.”

Bepo shifted uneasily. “And you’re just… going to let that go?”

“I don’t know, alright?!” The edge in his voice snapped through the space, sharper than anything he had said so far. He exhaled, dragging a hand briefly through his hair. “I don’t want to be a deadbeat parent, nor would I be a good one.”

“That’s not true,” Penguin said, more serious now. “When you care, you care. You’d figure it out.”

Law let out a short, humorless breath. “That’s not how it works.”

Shachi shook his head. “Man, you don’t even know that. You’re just assuming—”

“She didn’t want me in,” Law repeated, more firmly this time.

“But—”

“But nothing.” His tone shut it down, final, leaving no room for argument. “Just leave it for now.” Then, quieter—more to himself than anyone else. “She needs help. Not more problems.”

He found himself at the hospital again. Not in an operating room. Not in a consultation. Just… there.

Lami sat beside him, your daughter in her arms—Kora babbling softly, completely unaware of the weight of the conversations happening around her. You were a room away, asleep by your son’s side after days of barely leaving him.

“So,” Lami started, rocking Kora gently, her tone deceptively casual, “why are you so involved?”

Law glanced at her.

He was almost surprised it had taken her this long.

“I’m already here,” he said.

She gave him a look. A very specific look—the one that said she wasn’t going to accept that kind of answer.

He asked instead, “Do you know who the father is?”

Lami shook her head. “No. She wouldn’t say. And I don’t want to pry.”

“Does she know?”

Lami frowned slightly. “Yes.”

Kora’s soft babbling filled the space, small hands reaching aimlessly for nothing in particular.

 “You promised you’d leave my friends alone.”

“I should have,” he said simply.

That only made it worse.

“I—” she inhaled sharply, clearly about to launch into something much louder, much more explosive, and he cut her off quickly, low and firm. 

“Not here.”

She froze, glancing down at Kora, then back at him, visibly restraining herself.

“I so need to yell at you for this,” she muttered under her breath.

“I didn’t know,” he replied, quieter now. “You didn’t tell me either.”

“Why would I tell you my friend is pregnant?” she shot back. 

“You tell me everything.”

“Well, I didn’t think that would be important!” she snapped, then paused, her expression faltering slightly. “…I mean—how was I supposed to connect that?”

He couldn't blame her.

Kora let out a small, content sound, completely detached from the tension.

“So… what now?” Lami asked finally, more hesitant this time.

“It’s up to her”

But even as he said it, the thought didn’t sit as cleanly as it should have. Because “up to her” meant waiting. And waiting meant doing nothing. And doing nothing was not something he had ever been particularly good at. If they were his…then he had already failed.

He hadn’t called back. Hadn’t asked. Hadn’t even considered that  can we talk might have meant something more.

Now there were two children. One recovering from heart surgery. One small enough to fit entirely in the crook of his arm. Both existing in a life he hadn’t been part of.

Yet he couldn't stay away. 

Medicine taught him better than that. Everything had a cause. Everything had a chain of events you could trace if you looked closely enough, if you had enough data and enough discipline. And yet, nothing about this situation fit into anything rational he knew.

Law stood near the foot of the bed at first, watching. Observing. Rosi lay small against the sheets, pale but stable. The monitors told him everything he needed to know—heart rate steady, oxygen levels good, post-operative condition within expectation. 

You sat at the boy’s side, your hand resting over his, thumb moving in slow, absent circles. Behind him, a soft sound broke the quiet.

He turned immediately. Kora stirred in the small cot, her face tightening, breath hitching in that pre-cry way he had learned to recognize. Without thinking, he crossed the room and picked her up before the sound could fully form. The motion was smooth now.

He adjusted his hold automatically, supporting her head, bringing her closer to his chest. She made a small noise, then settled, her body relaxing as if she had expected this exact response.

The nights he didn’t spend at the hospital, he spent reading—quietly, obsessively—about feeding schedules, fevers, sleep regressions, the way infants cried differently depending on what they needed. It felt strange at first, almost intrusive, as if he was preparing for something he had no right to claim. And yet he couldn’t stop.

Now, standing there with the little girl in his arms, gently rocking her back and forth, it felt… natural. Terrifyingly so.

He knew you two should really talk about it, but you didn't broach this subject, and neither did he. 

You adjusted the blanket over your son, your fingers lingering a second too long. “You don’t have to do all this,” you said finally, your voice quiet.

“I know,” he replied.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t hand the baby back. Didn’t step away.

The little girl made a soft sound, her tiny fingers curling instinctively around the fabric of his shirt. His gaze dropped to her, and he smiled gently. 

“You’re good with her,” you added, almost as if you regretted saying it the moment the words left your mouth.

He let out a faint breath. “She’s… easy.”

You huffed quietly. “She’s not.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips, gone almost as quickly as it appeared.

“I didn’t think you liked kids,” he heard you say, a cautious note threading through your voice.

“I… never really thought about it,” he answered just as carefully. “But I like them.”

“You’re good at handling them,” another strained sentence.

“I did my research.”

And he did. Of course he had all the knowledge he needed to be at his point in his career, but he also spent all his limited time learning about kids from more than a medical standpoint. 

“I didn’t think you’d bother,” you added after a moment, quieter this time. Your hand brushed over your son’s hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. He was asleep, breathing evenly, oblivious to the tension woven into the room.

He exhaled through his nose. “I don’t like doing things wrong.”

Another silence. You wanted to say something. He could see it. 

“You should get some rest,” he said instead, his voice softer now. “I can stay.”

You shook your head immediately. “No, I—”

“You haven’t slept properly in days.”

“And you have?” you shot back, but there was no real bite to it. Just a tired reflex.

He didn’t answer that. Because you both knew the truth. He was there all the time, but you didn’t send him away either.

“Law? You started.

But Rosi shifted in the bed. Both of you reacted at once.

Law moved first, stepping closer, eyes immediately scanning the monitor again even though he already knew it was fine.

“He’s okay,” you whispered.

It wasn’t really directed at him.

Law understood that. Still, he answered anyway.

“I know,” he said quietly. “They both are. You did great with them.”

You hesitated, eyes still fixed on your son. “I doubt it sometimes.”

“It would be strange if you didn’t,” he replied after a beat. Then, more carefully, “You’re a good mother. And you did it all alone.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. He couldn’t quite bring himself to.

“Yeah,” you murmured, uncertain. “That’s how I chose it.”

A pause. He should have asked then. And you should have said more. But neither of you did.

Finally, Rosi was discharged.

Law was there again, helping you pack the last of the hospital things, listening to the final instructions from the doctor, standing just close enough to be present without taking over.

“I shouldn’t even bother saying all that,” the doctor said with a small, tired smile, glancing between you and him. “With Dr. Trafalgar by his side, everything will be fine.”

He bit his lip. As much as he wanted to, he probably wouldn't, but it wasn’t something he felt the need to discuss with his colleague.

The doctor excused herself soon after, leaving with a polite nod and the soft click of the door behind her.

Kora was babbling softly in the stroller. Rosi shifting with restless post-hospital energy. The quiet hum of the corridor outside. And the strange, suspended silence that settled in the space between you and him.

“Thank you,” you said at last.

“Of course I would help,” he replied immediately, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

A pause.

“I… wasn’t sure,” you admitted quietly, almost to yourself.

“I can’t blame you.”

Silence followed.

“They’re yours.”

Law didn’t react outwardly at first. Only a small shift in his gaze, a controlled inhale, the careful reining in of something that threatened to surface.

“I figured,” he said quietly. A pause. “Couldn’t be sure, though.”

A faint, almost bitter breath left you. “You’re too smart not to get it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he dared to ask.

Your gaze dropped for a fraction of a second before you forced it back up.

“I wanted to,” you said weakly. “I tried to reach out, but—”

“I didn’t answer,” he finished for you.

“Yes.”

A beat passed.

“And I know I could’ve just texted it,” you continued, voice tightening as you tried to keep it steady, “or told Lami… but we both agreed it was a one-night thing. And I was the one who convinced you to go without protection because I said I was on the pill, so it was my issue.”

His head snapped slightly at that.

“No,” he said immediately. Firm. “Our. You should’ve told me.”

“Yeah… but you had your life. Your responsibilities. You didn’t seem like you wanted kids. I didn’t want to be a burden.”

Law scoffed sharply, disbelieving, offended by it.

“Burden?” he repeated under his breath. “That’s ridiculous.”

His hand dragged through his hair, fingers gripping briefly at the roots as if to keep himself anchored. “I should’ve been there from the beginning. Helped you through the pregnancy, be there for delivery, seen them grow up—I…” He exhaled hard. “Fuck. I’m not blaming you. I’m just—”

His voice faltered, raw around the edges.

“I didn’t let you,” you admitted. “I thought I could do it all on my own.”

“You could,” he replied immediately, almost reflexively. Then softer, after a beat: “You’re capable.”

“Because once I said it out loud, it would become real,” you admitted. “And if it became real, then I’d have to watch you decide whether you wanted them.”

He went very still.

“You thought I’d walk away.”

You didn’t answer, because the answer was already on your face. His jaw tightened. Then, quietly, with a kind of fury directed entirely inward. At the shape of a past he hadn’t been part of when he should have been. He looked at the babies. His babies, “I would never walk away from them.”

“You don’t have to—” you began.

“No.” His voice cut through, steadier now, firm. “Listen.”

You stopped. For the first time, he looked directly at you  without hesitation.

“I never thought about kids,” he admitted quietly. “I’ve been fighting my own demons since the moment I met you in that hospital with them. I don’t think I’m good at this—at love, at any of it.”

His throat tightened as he swallowed.

“But I came to care,” he said after a beat. “For them. For you too.”

Your eyes widened slightly, like the sentence had turned in a direction you hadn’t expected.

“I love them,” he corrected himself softly. Then he looked at you fully. “And you.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“It’s your decision. Completely yours. If you don’t want me in their lives, I’ll respect that. I’ll at least support them financially. But I want to be part of it—however you allow me to. I just… I can’t step away now that I know. I cannot lose them,” he admitted slower, the words slipping past control he usually never lost.

“You can’t just say that,” you whispered.

“I’m here now.”

“That’s what scares me,” you said. “I’m used to doing this alone.”

“I didn’t know,” he said again. “If I had known, I would’ve been here. I would’ve been there for all of it. Every appointment. Every night you didn’t sleep. Everything.”

His voice faltered at the end, and he stopped himself, looking away for a moment as he pulled himself back together.

You swallowed, glossy eyes still on him. “It wasn’t that simple,” you whispered. “I didn’t even know how to ask for you.”

“You don’t have to decide everything now,” he assured. “I’m not asking you to. I just… I’m here. Like I should have been from the beginning.”

[dairyfreesorbetto]

Mended Things- Trafalgar Law x Reader

‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹ Part 2/2 Part 1 can be found here

ੈ✩‧₊˚Synopsis:

You went to the library looking for a cure and accidentally got adopted by a polar bear, a penguin, and a surgeon. Now you’re living aboard the Polar Tang, your lungs are finally healing, your found family won’t leave you alone for five minutes, and Captain Trafalgar D. Water Law falls for you!

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ Word Count: 5kish

A/N: This is NSFW! Law is overbearing/stalkerish, and there is a bit of medplay, I think the proper term is? Reader discretion is strongly advised. 18+ only.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the weeks that followed, something had shifted. You couldn't quite put your finger on it, but you noticed it all the same.

The captain was... around. More than usual. LIKE A lot more.

He was always in the lunchroom when you went to eat, sitting at the corner table with his coffee and clipboard, rarely speaking but always present. He was near the showers when you finished your morning routine, coincidentally reviewing a chart in the corridor. He was in the medical bay whenever you stopped by to organize supplies, silently working at his desk while you tidied the cabinets.

He rarely spoke, however. He just... watched. His cold grey eyes followed your movements with a quiet intensity that should have been unsettling but somehow wasn't. You'd grown used to it. It was just Law being Law, observant, meticulous, thorough. A good captain keeps an eye on his crew.

"I saw you fixed the broken valve in the engine room," he said one afternoon, appearing beside you as you walked to your quarters. You'd stopped jumping at his sudden appearances by now. 

Well.. mostly.

"Oh, yeah. It was a simple fix." You shrugged. "Just needed a new gasket."

"You didn't log it."

"OH! IM SOSOSOOS SORRY! I was going to. It slipped my mind."

"I logged it for you."

You paused, looking up at him. His expression was as unreadable as ever, trying to read if there was any ounce of anger, but there was something in his posture, a slight tension, a careful stillness that made your heart flutter.

"Thank you, Captain," you said warmly. "That's really thoughtful."

He nodded once and walked away.

What a good captain, you thought again. Always looking out for me.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a cold morning, the kind of cold that seeped through the submarine's metal walls and settled in your bones. You'd grabbed your usual jacket, a light blue thing you picked up on an island around a month ago. While comfortable, it was not particularly warm. 

Law was already there. Waiting as usual.

"Why aren't you wearing the grey coat?"

You stopped mid-step, your coffee mug halfway to your lips. "Hmm?"

"The grey one." He was looking at your jacket with something that might have been disapproval. "It insulates better than the blue one. The blue is cotton-blend. The grey is wool. You were shivering yesterday."

You blinked. Yesterday had been a brief stop on a winter island, you'd been on deck for maybe ten minutes, and yes, you'd been cold, but you hadn't thought anyone had noticed. You'd barely noticed yourself.

"I... forgot it," you said slowly. "I didn't think it would be this cold today."

"It's a submarine. It's always cold." He paused, and for just a moment, something flickered in his grey eyes, something almost protective. "I'll have someone bring you a warmer coat."

"You don't have to—"

But he was already gone, his coat billowing behind him.

You stood there for a long moment, your coffee growing cold in your hands.

He'd noticed you shivering. Yesterday. In a moment so small you'd forgotten it yourself. He'd noticed what you were wearing and compared it to what you'd worn before and calculated which garment would better serve you.

He really does pay attention to everything, you thought, a strange warmth blooming in your chest. What an incredibly observant captain.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later that night you were crying.

You didn't know what had triggered it this time, maybe some half-remembered dream of your parents, maybe, or the lingering scent of hospital antiseptic from your check-up earlier that day. Whatever it was, you'd woken with tears on your face and a sob caught in your throat, the old grief fresh and raw as an open wound.

You didn't hear the footsteps in the corridor, however. You didn't see the shadow that paused outside your door. Law stood motionless in the dim emergency lighting, checking outside your door as you slept as usual. His hand was hovering just above the door handle. He'd been walking past on his way to his office when he'd heard it. The soft, hitching breaths. The muffled whimpers. The unmistakable sound of someone crying through a nightmare.

He didn't knock. He didn't enter. He just stood there, listening, remembering.

Later, in the privacy of his office, he opened the black journal and added a new entry.

*Nightmares persist. Frequency appears to be 2-3 times per week, usually between 02:00 and 04:00. Content unknown, but likely related to parental loss. Crying pattern is muffled sobs, attempts at self-suppression. Doesn't seek comfort from crewmates. Doesn't want to burden others.

Needs watching. Needs protection.

Needs me.

He closed the journal and sat in the darkness, the hum of the submarine around him, the image of your tear-streaked face burned into his mind, hurting his heart to think of you sad. 

“How do I prevent her from ever feeling pain again?” he whispered to himself. He did not want this cruel world to threaten your kindness 

You thought he was just being a good captain. You thought the way he memorized your routines, anticipated your needs, watched over you in silence, you thought it was professionalism and hopefully mayeve even friendship.

You couldn't have been more wrong.

But you wouldn't know that. Not yet.

The weeks following his revelation were a study in controlled descent.

Law did not lose himself. He was not a man who lost himself.

He still framed it as logic. He was very good at that.

The first change he made to protect you in his eyes was the surveillance. It was subtle, a few additional Den Den Mushis installed near the engineering bay where you started spending the majority of your time, and crew quarters, where you often lounged, officially logged as "security upgrades" after a recent run-in with a rival crew. No one questioned it. He was the captain. Security was his responsibility. If the new cameras happened to capture your routines, your comings and goings, the exact times you passed through certain corridors, well, that was simply thorough monitoring of a vulnerable ship's assets.

The second change was the patrol schedules. He revised them personally, citing efficiency improvements. Shachi's night watch shifted an hour later. Bepo's rounds now take him to the opposite end of the ship during the hours you usually shower. Nothing dramatic. Nothing anyone would notice. But the cumulative effect was a ship that subtly rearranged itself around your presence.

Your quarters were relocated. A plumbing issue, he explained. The old room needed repairs. The new one happened to be adjacent to the medical bay and his office. It was a coincidence. Yes, it was the only room on the ship where he could hear you breathing through the wall as he fell asleep. But this is not weird nor obsessive, just attentive he believes this is needed to keep his crewmate safe.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bepo let out a dramatic sigh as he carried another crate across the deck.

“I miss when we all had the same shifts,” he complained. “Now Captain keeps changing everything around…”

Penguin snorted beside you, checking inventory numbers off the list in his hands

.

“Seriously. Feels like we barely see each other anymore unless we’re eating.” He glanced toward the submarine hatch. “Not that I’m complaining about fewer night patrols, but still.”

You adjusted the clipboard against your hip with a small laugh. “Maybe Law’s just trying to keep everyone organized.”

“Organized?” Penguin repeated. “He moved three schedules around because you kept getting assigned late maintenance.”

Bepo lowered his voice. “And somehow the Captain always knows exactly where you are now.”

Penguin blinked. “…Actually, yeah.”

Before you could answer, the visiting mechanic beside you laughed warmly, leaning closer to look at the inventory sheet in your hands.

“You Heart Pirates run things pretty seriously, huh?” he teased.

“Occupational hazard,” you said with a joking tone.

His grin widened. “Well, you’re a lot nicer than the rumors about your captain.”

You laughed softly at that, and the mechanic smiled like he’d won something.

Then his hand landed lightly around your wrist as he pointed toward one of the supply crates. “You marked this one twice—”

The atmosphere changed instantl

A shadow stretched across the clipboard in your hands. The mechanic’s voice died mid-sentence. Law stood beside you.

Silent.

Black coat stirring slightly in the ocean wind. Grey eyes lowered toward the mechanic’s hand still touching your wrist.

The mechanic quickly let go. Law’s gaze lingered on the spot where his fingers had been for one long second before shifting to the inventory list.

“You’re behind schedule,” he said calmly.

You frowned slightly. “We’re almost finished.”

“The remaining crates can be handled by Penguin and Bepo.”

They both side-eyed each other silently

Law extended a hand toward your clipboard.

“You’re needed in the infirmary.”

The mechanic awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. “Oh, sorry, Captain, I was just asking her about—”

“I know.” Law finally looked at him. Expression unreadable.

He leaned down. His lips brushed your ear.

"Your symptoms worsen when you're careless."

The words were quiet. Intimate. Meant only for you. But his gaze remained fixed on the mechanical. It was not jealousy persay nor was it anger. It was something far more dangerous: certainty. 

Law held his hand out again for the clipboard.

“You left your water glass untouched beside the sink.”

Silence.

Then, quieter he whispered in your ear tucking your hair behind your ear while staring down at the mechanic menacingly, almost as if he was staking his claim “Your symptoms worsen when you’re careless.”

Behind you, Penguin exchanged a brief glance with Bepo.

Because none of you remembered telling Law you’d forgotten your medicine.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A little while later, the Polar Tang docked at a nearby island, a tropical stopover with lush jungles and air so thick with pollen. The crew had disembarked for supplies and shore leave, and you'd been eager to explore. To feel the sun on your skin and the earth beneath your feet after weeks of recycled submarine air. To be somewhere that wasn't the same metal corridors and sterile rooms of the ship.

Law had watched you leave the ship. He'd been standing on the deck, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. "Don't wander far," he shouted. 

You'd waved him off with a smile. What was the worst that could happen?

But within hours of landing, something was wrong.

The cough returned. Not the gentle, manageable cough of the past few months, but the deep, bloody coughs you remembered from before. Your lungs seized. Your vision spotted. The weakness that had haunted you came back.

You collapsed on the jungle path before anyone could catch you.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You woke in the medical bay.

The familiar sterile lights hummed overhead. The familiar antiseptic smell filled your nostrils. The familiar, crushing weight of being sick again, of being weak again, of being a burden again pressed down on your chest like a stone. You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. You had been doing so well. You had been getting better. You had been strong. And now—

"Don't move."

Law's voice was different. Sharper. More clipped than you'd ever heard it. He was at your bedside, adjusting an IV line, his tattooed fingers moving with a precision that was somehow more than usual. His jaw was tight. His shoulders were rigid.

"The island's pollen triggered a relapse of your original condition," he said, not looking at your face. He was watching the heart monitor. "Your immune system overreacted. The inflammation in your lungs is severe. You'll need round-the-clock monitoring for at least two weeks."

"Two weeks?" Your voice was a rasp. "But…the mission… and what about t-the crew—"

"The crew can manage without you." Finally, he looked at you. His grey eyes were burning—not with anger, but with something rawer. Something hungrier. Something that looked almost like fear. "You, however, cannot manage without me. Not right now. So you'll stay here, in this room, under my direct care, until I'm satisfied you won't collapse again. Is that understood?"

You nodded weakly. It made sense. He was your doctor. He was your captain. He was just doing his job. Of course, he would be concerned. 

You didn't see the way his hands trembled when he turned away. You didn't see the way he pressed one palm flat against the counter and bowed his head, his breath coming in short, controlled bursts. You didn't see the barely controlled terror in his eyes, not terror of your illness, but terror of losing you. Of failing to protect you. Of being unable to fix the one broken thing that mattered more than all the rest.

She collapsed, his mind screamed. She collapsed, and I wasn't there. She was alone in the jungle, and I wasn't there. She could have died, and I wasn't there.

He would not make that mistake again.

The medical bay became your world.

Law changed your bandages from the scratches you got after taking a tumble when fainting. He could have delegated it, I mean, everyone on the crew was perfectly capable. But he did it himself, every single time, his tattooed fingers moving across your skin with a gentleness that seemed almost impossible. He monitored your heart rate obsessively, checking the monitors every hour, adjusting your medication at the slightest fluctuation. He refused to let crew members inside, citing infection risk, quarantine protocols, and the need for sterile conditions.

All of it was true. All of it was also, you were beginning to suspect, an excuse.

He slept in the chair beside your bed. Every night. You'd wake in the dim emergency lighting and see him there, slouched in that uncomfortable metal chair, his long legs stretched out before him, his hat tipped forward over his eyes. Sometimes the hat would slip slightly, revealing the messy black hair beneath, the sharp lines of his face softened by sleep.

He looked different when he slept. Younger. Less guarded. The perpetual tension in his jaw relaxed. The cold, calculating sharpness of his grey eyes was hidden behind closed lids. He looked almost... peaceful. Almost gentle.

Like, just your type.

You found yourself watching him on those nights. The way his chest rose and fell with steady breaths. The way his tattooed fingers twitched occasionally, as if even in sleep his hands were searching for something to fix. The way he murmured sometimes,words too quiet to make out, but tinged with something that sounded almost like longing.

He's beautiful, I mean you knew he was a good looking guy but he really was beautiful, you realized one night, and the thought settled into your chest

He's beautiful, I think I might be falling for him.

It didn't make sense. He was your captain. He was your doctor. He was cold and calculating and he watched you with an intensity that should have scared you. But for those reasons you wanted him even more.

Because beneath the cold exterior, there was something else. You felt safe with him. As if nothing in the world could touch you as long as he was in that chair, watching the monitors, keeping guard.

You reached out one night, your fingers brushing the edge of his sleeve. He didn't wake. But something in his expression shifted, a slight softening around the mouth, a quiet exhale.

You smiled and closed your eyes.

"Recovery requires consistency," he said the next morning, when you asked why he never left. "And you require me."

It sounded like a medical statement. It felt like something else entirely. The way his grey eyes held yours for a beat too long. The way his fingers brushed your wrist when he checked your pulse, lingering, warm, deliberate.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. "I require you?"

"Medically." He said it flatly, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "Obviously."

"Obviously," you echoed, and you were definitely blushing now. You tried to hide it behind your hand.

He didn't comment. He just turned back to his clipboard. But you could have sworn you saw the ghost of a smirk.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The knock came on the third day. Penguin's voice, muffled through the locked door: "Captain? Can I see her? Just for a minute?"

Law didn't look up from his clipboard. "No."

"Come onnnnnn!!! she's my friend. I found her first, remember? I just want to see if she's okay—"

The door opened. Law stood in the doorway, blocking the entrance with his body. His expression was utterly, terrifyingly calm.

"She's my patient," he said. "And I'm her doctor."

A long, terrible silence stretched between the two men. Penguin, who had known Law for years, who had followed him through battles and betrayals, who had stood at his side through horrors most men couldn't imagine. Penguin looked into his captain's grey eyes and saw something he didn't recognize.

Not cruelty. Not anger. Something quieter. Something absolute.

"Captain," he said slowly, carefully, "this isn't normal anymore."

"She's in recovery. You're disrupting it. Leave."

The door closed. The lock clicked.

You watched from the bed, too weak to intervene, your heart hammering against your ribs. Unease traced down your spine, this is too intense, this is not how people act. You pushed it away. You were being ridiculous. He was just a dedicated doctor. He was just protecting you.

But then another thought surfaced, unbidden and warm….He's protecting me. He's keeping everyone away because he wants to be the one who takes care of me. Because he...

You swallowed hard.

Oh no. Does he... does he feel this too? Does he like me? Is that why he's acting like this?

Your heart did something traitorous in your chest. A flutter, you pressed your hand to your sternum as if you could quiet it.

The heart monitor betrayed you instantly. The beeping accelerated.

Law's head turned. His grey eyes found yours.

"Your heart rate increased," he said. "Are you in pain?"

"No." Your voice came out smaller than you intended. "No, I'm fine. I just... I was just thinking."

He studied you for a long moment. "About what?"

About you. About the way you look at me. About the way you touched my hair and whispered in my ear and made that mechanic back off without saying a single threatening word. About the way you sleep in that chair every night instead of your own bed. About the way I feel safe with you, even when I probably shouldn't.

"Nothing," you said. "Just... thank you. For taking care of me."

Something flickered in his grey eyes. Something warm. "You don't need to thank me."

"I know. I wanted to."

The words echoed strangely. You'd said them to him once before, when you'd fixed his hat. He remembered. You could tell by the way his expression softened.

He didn't respond. But when he turned back to his clipboard, his shoulders were slightly less rigid. And he didn't leave the room for the rest of the night.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You woke at 3 AM with the certainty that someone was watching you.

Law was sitting beside the bed in the darknessNot doing anything but sitting, his elbows on his knees. The blue glow of the heart monitot cast strange shadows across his face, illuminating the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the dark circles beneath his eyes.

He wasn't blinking.

"Captain...?" Your voice was thick with sleep and confusion.

He didn't look at you. "Your heart rate increased during sleep." He paused. "Were you having a nightmare?"

Your blood ran cold. You had been. A nightmare about your parents, their pale faces, their labored breathing, the sterile hospital room where they'd died within weeks of each other to a similar sickness to yours. The dream had been so vivid you could still smell the antiseptic, still feel the cold weight of grief pressing against your chest.

But you hadn't told anyone about those dreams. You'd never mentioned them aloud.

"How did you—"

"You whimper in your sleep," he said, still watching the monitor. "Between 02:00 and 04:00, two to three times per week. You try to suppress it, you press your face into the pillow, you curl your hands into fists, you bite your lip. You don't want to burden anyone."

Finally, his gaze shifted to you. In the darkness, his eyes were unreadable. But his voice, when he spoke again, was softer than you'd ever heard it.

"You're not a burden. Not to me."

You should have been and were touched. But another part, the part that was finally, belatedly catching up, felt something curl in your stomach. Not fear. Something warmer. Something that recognized the weight of his attention and didn't want to run from it.

He knows my sleep schedule. He knows my nightmares. He knows the way I try to hide my pain. He knows me better than I know myself.

How long has he been watching me sleep?

You should have asked. The question was right there, balanced on the tip of your tongue. But your throat was tight with the remnants of the nightmare, and your chest ached with the old familiar grief, and you were so tired….so tired of being strong, of being brave, of suffering in silence.

."Law," you whispered. It was the first time you’d said his name without the title. It felt scary… but nice. 

He stayed quiet, watching you with those steady grey eyes.

“I keep dreaming about them,” you continued, voice trembling. “My parents. I dream about watching them die… and I couldn’t save them. I was just a kid. And now I’m sick like they were and I keep thinking… what if I end up just like them? What if I die and no one even notices I’m gone?”

The tears came before you could stop them. Hot, messy, embarrassing. 

His hand cupped your cheek, warm and careful, thumb gently brushing away a tear.

“You are not going to die,” he said, voice low and certain. “I won’t let that happen. You are not your parents. You are not their illness. You’re mine to take care of now.”

A shaky little sob-laugh left you. “You can’t just decide that…”

“I can,” he answered simply, the corner of his mouth softening in that rare, barely-there way. “I’m the best surgeon on the Grand Line. And I’m very stubborn when it comes to you.”

Before you could say anything else, you reached for him. Your fingers curled into his coat, pulling weakly. Law didn’t hesitate. He kicked off his boots and climbed into the narrow medical bed with you, the mattress dipping under his weight. Strong arms wrapped around you immediately, pulling you flush against his chest like he’d been waiting for the chance.

You buried your face in his shirt, breathing in the faint scent of antiseptic, sea salt, and warm skin that was so distinctly him. His hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair, while the other rubbed slow, soothing circles along your back.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he murmured against your hair, lips brushing your temple. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever.”

You cried until your chest hurt and your eyes burned, and Law held you through all of it. He didn’t tell you to stop. He didn’t say it would be okay. He just kept you tucked safely against him, chin resting on top of your head, heartbeat steady and strong under your ear.

When the tears finally slowed, he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Sleep,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

Exhausted and strangely warm inside, you melted into him. One of your legs tangled with his, your hand fisting loosely in his shirt right over his heart. Law adjusted the blanket over both of you and pulled you even closer, until there wasn’t a single inch of space left between your bodies.

He stayed like that all night.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As your body healed, his fascination deepened.

It started with small things. The way he'd linger when checking your pulse, his tattooed fingers pressed to the inside of your wrist for longer than medically necessary, as if memorizing the rhythm of your blood. The way he'd watch you breathe during examinations, his grey eyes tracking the rise and fall of your chest with an intensity that made heat bloom across your skin. The way he'd ask questions, endless, probing, personal questions, about how you felt, what you were thinking, what you'd dreamed about.

You didn't pull away when his fingers lingered. You didn't flinch when his gaze grew too intense.

Because you'd stopped being afraid of his attention. You'd started to want it.

"If something this beautiful exists externally," he murmured one night, half to himself, when he thought you were asleep, "what does it look like inside?"

You heard him. You kept your eyes closed and your breathing steady. You pretended to be dreaming.

But the question hung in the sterile air, poisonous and sacred. And instead of fear, what coiled in your stomach was something else entirely.

What does it look like inside? he had asked.

And some quiet, reckless part of you whispered back: Maybe one day I'll let you find out.

====================================================================

The next few nights blurred together in the infirmary.

After that night of tears and comfort, Law stopped pretending he could sleep in the chair. Every evening, he would climb into the narrow bed with you without a word, pulling you against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. You slept tangled together, your head on his shoulder, his tattooed hand resting possessively over your heart, his lips occasionally brushing your hair in his sleep.

But tonight felt different.

The air was heavier. Law had been quieter than usual, his touches lingering longer, his grey eyes darker whenever they traced over your body. After you both finished dinner, he didn’t immediately pull you into bed. Instead, he stood beside you, fingers gently stroking your cheek.

“I need something,” he said softly, almost hesitant. “I’ve been trying to ignore it… but I can’t anymore.”

You looked up at him, heart beating faster. “What is it?”

He swallowed. “I need to see you. All of you. Not just the surface.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “I need to feel how alive you are. How perfect you are. Inside and out.”

The intensity in his eyes should have scared you. Instead, it made heat bloom low in your stomach.

Before you could answer, the blue glow of his Room bloomed around you both

You woke inside the soft blue glow of his Room.

The sphere hummed around you like a living thing, holding you gently suspended just above the operating table. You weren’t restrained, but you couldn’t move. Law stood over you, coat discarded, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, messy black hair falling into his grey eyes. He looked undone. Vulnerable. Hungry.

"Law…" you whispered.

"Don’t be afraid," he murmured, voice low and rough. His fingers brushed your cheek with aching tenderness. "I would never hurt what’s mine."

He leaned down and kissed your forehead, then your lips. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark with need.

You should have been scared. Instead, heat pooled low in your belly.

"Scalpel."

The word was barely spoken, yet your body responded. Fabric parted. Skin separated painlessly under his power. Cool air kissed your chest as he opened you with perfect, delicate control. No blood. No pain. Just the surreal, intimate sensation of being laid bare for him.

Your heart floated gently above your open chest, beating steadily, glowing pink and warm in the blue light. Law stared at it like it was holy.

"Look at you…" he breathed, voice thick. "So fucking beautiful."

His tattooed fingers hovered over your exposed heart, then finally touched it — feather-light, reverent. The contact sent a pulse of pure pleasure through your entire body. You gasped, back arching.

"Law—"

"I can feel it," he whispered, thumb stroking the curve of your beating heart. "Every beat. Every little flutter when I touch you." He leaned closer, breath warm against your skin. "This heart has been kind to me when I didn’t deserve it. This is the heart that’s been keeping me alive."

He lowered his head and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your heart.

A broken moan tore from your throat. The sensation was overwhelming, intimate beyond words. Pleasure throbbed between your legs as he kissed and caressed the most vulnerable part of you.

You were dripping wet.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Law’s free hand slid down your body, slipping under the loosened fabric of your gown until his fingers found your soaked folds. He groaned against your heart as he stroked you slowly, two thick fingers circling your clit with devastating precision.

"So wet for me while I hold your heart in my hands…" he rasped. "That’s my girl."

You whimpered, hips twitching uselessly in the air. He kept touching you, slow and possessive, while continuing to worship your exposed organs with his eyes and fingers.

After several long, devastating minutes, he closed you again, seamless, perfect, no trace left behind. The Room faded.

The moment you could move, you reached for him. Law climbed onto the table and pulled you into his lap, straddling him. His hands gripped your hips possessively, fingers digging in as he kissed you hard, tongue sliding against yours with open hunger.

When you finally broke the kiss, panting, you whispered against his lips, "When… when can I leave the infirmary?"

Law’s grip tightened. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes half-lidded with lust and something deeper.

"Not yet," he said, voice rough. "I still need to do more research." He rocked you against the hard bulge in his pants, making you gasp. "Extensive research. I need to monitor you… closely. Every night. Every morning. I need to keep you right here where I can take care of you properly."

"Law…"

He kissed your neck, sucking lightly. "You’re mine now. Let me keep you a little longer. Please."

He laid you back down gently and stripped off the rest of your clothes, then his own. When he settled between your thighs, thick cock pressing against your entrance, he looked straight into your eyes.

"I’m not letting you go," he whispered, pushing in slowly, stretching you open with a low groan. "Not because I own you… But because I need you. Because this—" he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, "—is the only thing that makes sense anymore."

He fucked you slow and deep, every thrust deliberate, possessive, loving. One hand stayed over your heart the entire time, feeling it race under his palm as he drove you closer to the edge.

When you came, clenching around him with a broken cry, Law followed right after, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside you with a ragged moan of your name.

Afterwards, he didn’t pull out.

He rolled you both onto your sides, still buried deep inside you, and wrapped his arms around your body like he was afraid you’d disappear. He pulled the blanket over both of you and tucked your head under his chin.

"You’re staying right here tonight," he murmured against your hair, voice hoarse with satisfaction and emotion. "Let me hold you. Let me feel your heart beating against mine."

You pressed closer, legs tangled with his, his cock still warm and snug inside you.

"I’m yours, Law," you whispered.

His arms tightened possessively.

"And I’m yours," he answered, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. "Only yours."

You woke to find him already awake, propped on one elbow, watching you with those grey eyes that had once seemed so cold and now seemed so warm.

"You're staring," you murmured.

"I'm always staring." He said it like a confession. "I can't seem to stop."

"That's a little creepy."

"I know." He didn't deny it. He didn't apologize. He just reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "Is it too much?"

You considered the question. Once, it might have been. Once, the weight of his attention had felt like a cage. But somewhere along the way, the cage had become a sanctuary. His obsession had become devotion. His need had become love.

"No," you said. "It's just enough."

He smiled, a real smile, the kind that softened the sharp lines of his face and made him look younger. Happier. Whole.

And in the quiet of the medical bay, with the submarine humming around you and the heart monitor beeping its steady rhythm, Trafalgar Law pressed his forehead to yours and let himself be mended.

[dairyfreesorbetto]

Mended Things- Trafalgar Law x Reader

ੈ✩‧₊˚Synopsis:

You went to the library looking for a cure and accidentally got adopted by a polar bear, a penguin, and a surgeon. Now you’re living aboard the Polar Tang, your lungs are finally healing, your found family won’t leave you alone for five minutes, and Captain Trafalgar D. Water Law falls for you! Part 1

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ Word Count: 7424

‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹ CALL THE DOCTOR- nightcore

A/N: Check tags for any TW PLS!!! I hope to be able to write more long-form content as my semester ends this week!!! Reader discretion is strongly advised. 18+ only.

Your sickness, like most, slowly crept in, slowly diminishing your everyday life. At first, it was just a tickle in the back of your throat, making it hard to talk for extended periods of time. Something you dismissed as just a simple cold. But as time crept on, the whisper in the back of your throat doubled, no tripled, into coughing fits that would leave you gasping for air, and making the most menial tasks feel impossible. On top of typical symptoms brought on by any sickness, like fatigue and weakness, this sickness became something that destroyed the simple life you once knew. To be fair, you were never someone impressive to start with. You've been a simple construction worker, building bridges and fixing structures. Your life was boring by all standards, you had no true friends, you were average looking, and you were never the best at your job, nor did you have some big dream you wanted to achieve. However, this boring life became something you took for granted and prayed every day to return to. This sickness was sucking everything that once made you you. Now you spend your remaining days in the library of this small island town, being a shell of what was left of you, haunting the medical section. Your fingernails, once packed in with dirt from working at the construction site, were now stained with ink from desperate note-taking. You were desperate for any sort of relief. All the town's doctor told you was to rest and take overpriced medication you swore did nothing for you. You would brew concoctions from your research that left you vomiting for hours, trying just anything to feel better. What was worse than all the pain this sickness caused was how tired of being alone with it.

The afternoon sun streamed through the library windows, illuminating the particular book you needed. "A Treatise on Rare Tropical Fevers." As you reached for it, your hand stretched as wide as it could. Another hand closed around the spine at the exact same moment. A large, white-furred hand.

You looked up, and up, into the face of a massive polar bear. He wore a bright orange boiler suit, and his furry brow was furrowed in a polite, gentle face. Beside him, a man in a distinctive cap that read 'PENGUIN' looked just as surprised to see you.

"Oh! Sorry!" the bear, Bepo, mumbled, his voice a deep, apologetic rumble. "I didn't see you there. I need this book."

"So do I," you said, at first rubbing your eyes after seeing this polar bear talk. Your grip on the book tightened.

Penguin put a hand on his hip. "Look, we saw it first. We've been scouring this island for medical texts for our captain. WE REALLLY need it."

"We can pay," Bepo added, as if that was the end of it.

You stood there silent, not sure what to say. On one hand, they looked tired and just as glad to have found this book as you. On the other hand, you were clinging to any lifeline to keep living; this book, despite just being another cure, could possibly have a cure.

After some time, you just lost in thought, Penguin pulled out his wallet. "Name your price. Seriously. We'll beat any offer."

Without even thinking, ugly heavy tears started rolling down your cheeks as you finally let go of the book, your energy gone. Your shoulders shook, not from the cough this time, but from a sob.

"Please," you choked out, hating how small your voice sounded. " I've been trying to cure myself for months. My parents… th-they died of a sickness just like this. I've tried everything. I've spent every last berry I have. It's just me now, completely alone. and this book… this book is the first lead I've found in weeks. I don't need to keep it. I won't damage it. I just… I just need to read it." (PLS SPEED MY MOM IS KINDA HOMELESS)

Silence. The dust danced in the sunbeams between you. The raw discomfort on Penguin's and Bepo's faces was almost comical through your tear-blurred vision. They were pirates, hardened men of the sea, clearly completely unprepared for a complete emotional breakdown from a stranger in some no-name town. Bepo’s ears drooped. He looked at Penguin with a clear expression of you fix this right now.

Penguin sighed, a long, defeated sound. He pinched the bridge of his nose under his cap. "Alright, alright, please don't… do that." He awkwardly gestured to your entire crying form. "We're sorry. We've been jerks. we take the book. Fair and square. But you come with us, right now, and read it. We have a week left on the island is that long enough?"

You blinked, the tears stopping as a mix of embarrassment and confusion took over. "What?"

Bepo nodded firmly, a smile returning to his fuzzy face. "It's decided. I'm sorry I tried to take your book." He gently placed a massive paw on your shoulder.

That was how you found yourself sandwiched between a polar bear and a silly looking man, huddled over a dusty medical book in a corner booth of a seaside café. The first hour was just intense, focused reading, the three of you bent over pages detailing fungal infections and blood parasites. You didn't find a cure. But you found something arguably more valuable.

"Why would you even try to boil wolfsbane into a tea? It says right here on page 492 that it releases toxins!" Penguin scolded, pointing a calloused finger at your notes, which were spread across the table. "You're terrible at medicine!"

"I NEVER SAID I WAS SMART, I build bridges, not serums!" you fired back, a ghost of your old self returning. "It was an idea!"

"An idea that nearly dissolved your stomach lining!" he laughed. It was a genuinely warm, teasing laugh, and you surprised yourself by laughing with him, a sound that quickly turned into a cough.

They walked you home. Your apartment was small and tidy. There were no photos of family, just blueprints and stacks of notes. Bepo and Penguin exchanged a glance you didn't quite catch.

"Right," Penguin said, clapping his hands together. "We've decided. We're staying the night."

"What? No, you really don't—"

"You said you were lonely,earlier," Bepo said simply, as if that was the most logical reason in the world. "And you're sick. What if you need help? We'll stay."

And they did. You made them sweets from a box of emergency brownie mix in your cupboard, the rich, chocolatey scent filling the sterile space for the first time in years. Bepo ate three brownies in one bite and cried because they still hadn’t cooled down.

Wait, can polar bears even eat chocolate?? You thought to yourself

" Penguin, through a mouthful of brownie, spoke about how his captain would have a fit if he saw them eating so much sugar, which started a ten-minute story about their submarine, the Polar Tang, and life under a man he called "Captain Law."

"He's a genius surgeon," Penguin explained, leaning back on your threadbare sofa. "Grumpy as hell. A total control freak. But the best doctor, I would say, if anyone could figure out what's wrong with you, it's him. I guarantee the first thing he'd do is mock every single one of these Facebook anti-vax mom type experiments you wrote down."

When they learned their ship needed a full week of resupply and repairs, you offered your old tools and materials you no longer needed from the construction site without hesitation. They were nothing but chaos and joy in your silent, dim world. Bepo was an early riser who tried to make pancakes and set off the smoke alarm. Penguin taught you a card game called "Cheat". They filled your apartment with laughter, and you repaid them with sturdy meals and the quiet, attentive listening that only someone starved of conversation could offer.

You learned their rhythms, their stories. You fixed the zipper on Penguin's boiler suit one evening, and he looked at you like you'd handed him a sack of gold. "Cap'n would like you," he mused. "You notice the tiny things. He's pathological about tiny things."

By the fifth day, you weren't just a girl who trauma dumped on them randoly. You were their friend. And Penguin, seeing you suppress another shuddering cough, made a decision.

He must have called his captain, must have made a passionate, insistent plea, because on the sixth day, the three of you stood on the dock, looking at the imposing, rust-colored hull of the Polar Tang. A tall skinny man with messy black hair, intricate hand tattoos spelling out D-E-A-T-H, a funny looking hat and the most exhausted, unimpressed grey eyes you'd ever seen stood before you. He was a figure of pure, intimidating control.

"This is the patient?" Trafalgar Law's voice was a flat monotone. He scanned you from head to toe as if you were a malfunctioning piece of equipment he was being asked to fix. “Must be your lungs?"

"How did—"

"That rattling in your chest is audible from here. Years of chronic inflammation. Genetic, likely. I can hear the early-stage necrosis." He sighed, turning his back and walking up back to the sho[. "Get her on board. I'll run a full scan. Room 3."

Penguin just beamed, grabbing your bag and practically dragging you onto the ship. "That's speak for 'hello, welcome to the crew'!"

You barely heard him. You were being pulled into a new world (LOL), your heart hammering with a mixture of terror and hope. As you crossed the threshold, Law paused at the top of the sumbermine and looked down at you.

"Kuro-ya," he said, the nickname for the dark circles under your eyes you could not cover no matter how much conclear you caked on. Iinstantly, a clinical classification as much as a name. "If you're going to live, you'll follow my instructions without question. Data and discipline are what will save you. I don't appreciate wasted effort, so don't die. It would be” He paused for a second “inefficient."

He was distant, but from that moment, your name was written into the patient log you felt happy like you belonged somewhere.

After going on yet another successful mission, your lungs felt tired,however, for once, it was not from sickness, it was from the exertion of muscles finally strong enough to keep you running. Gllad to be tired from something else other than your sickness, thanks to the Law's treatments. For six months, you'd sat on his examination table once a week while he scanned you with that terrifying, sterile blue Room, his grey eyes clinical and distant. He'd mutter medical jargon to himself, adjust your medication cocktail, and dismiss you with a wave of his tattooed hand. No small talk. No bedside manner. Just results.

And the results were undeniable. You could run now without tasting blood. You could laugh with Bepo until your sides hurt without triggering a coughing fit. You had a family again, a strange one but a family nonetheless. Life was genuinely good.

But your captain remained a mystery to you.

You were grateful to him, of course. Eternally, overwhelmingly grateful SUPER grateful. He'd saved your life on nothing more than Penguin's insistence. That spoke to a kindness buried deep beneath the sarcasm and the cold, calculating stares. A kind man with cold eyes. A man who never asked for thanks. Despite not knowing him well you did know he liked coffee and hated talking to people for extended periods of times, he loved his crew that was evident but you knew he could get overwhelmed at times. You knew the sound of his footsteps, mostly to make sure you weren’t doing something dumb before he walked into whatever room you were in. But you didn't know him.

Tonight, the mission had pushed him harder than you'd ever seen. He'd sustained his Room for nearly twenty minutes, an enormous, crackling sphere of blue energy that had bisected three marine battleships and swapped the positions of a dozen crew members with surgical precision. When it finally collapsed, he'd staggered. Just for a second. Just a single, unguarded moment.

Now, as the crew dispersed to hit their bunks, you watched him from across the deck. His shoulders were tight. His jaw was clenched. His pale gray eyes had a glassy, overstimulated sheen to them. He looked less like the Surgeon of Death and more like a tired man.

You wanted to thank him. Not with words, words felt insufficient, and you were never good with them. After thinking for a while, you decided to show thanks with a small act.

The galley was empty, the crew too tired to do anything but collapse. You moved quietly, a habit born from months of navigating a submarine full of pirates with sharp hearing and sharper tempers. First, the medicine inventory notes. It was a small thing you'd started doing weeks ago, organizing the medical bay's supply cabinet after your appointments, to feel like you were paying back your appointments somehow. Tonight, you'd noticed the antiseptic was running low, and the suture kits were out of order. You'd spent a couple of minutes rearranging everything, logging the counts in your neat, blocky handwriting. You clipped the notes together and added them to the tray.

Then, the pen. You'd found it on the deck after the mission, snapped clean in half, probably crushed under someone's boot during the chaos. It was a nice pen, though heavy, silver, engraved with a heart symbol similar to his chest tattoo. This led you to believe it was the law. You'd fished it out of a crevice near the railing, taken it to your workstation, and carefully soldered the broken barrel back together with a precision that would have made your old bosses proud. The repair was nearly invisible.

Next, the coffee, he lacked energy after this mission, which was evident, and knowing him he would take to his office instead of resting. Black, no sugar. You'd noticed this was his favorite,

You set the steaming mug on a small tray.

Finally, a little note. You chewed on the end of your pencil, thinking. Something short. Something that wouldn't make him roll his eyes. You scribbled it down, folded it once, and tucked it under the repaired pen.

You slipped into his office quickly trying to make it out before he finished his shower. You placed the tray exactly in the center of his desk, where he couldn't miss it, and slipped out just as quietly.

In a good mood, you skipped toward the showers, a small, goofy smile crept across your face. It felt good to do something kind. It felt good to finally, in some small way, pay him back.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Trafalgar Law was going to kill someone.

Not metaphorically. Not eventually. Right now, if one more person spoke to him, touched him, or breathed too loudly in his general direction, he was going to use Mes on their heart and squeeze until they learned the meaning of silence. His stamina was shot. His head was pounding with the aftershocks of maintaining a Room that large for that long. Every sound was a needle in his eardrums. Every flicker of the submarine's fluorescent lights was a spike through his optic nerve.

He trudged down the corridor toward his office after a long shower. The crew knew better than to approach him when he was like this. They'd learned the hard way that an overstimulated Law was a Law best left alone.

Then he saw you.

You were coming from the direction of his office. You didn't see him, you were too busy skipping. Actually skipping. Your face was split into that ridiculous, goofy smile you got whenever you did something that pleased you.

His lip curled. A distasteful expression he reserved specifically for things that were aggressively, obnoxiously cute. Like Dr Chopper or Bepo hugging him after being apart from him for a long time. And now, apparently, this.

He waited until you'd disappeared around the corner before continuing to his office. The door swung shut behind him.

Then he saw it.

The tray on his desk. Steam still rising from a mug of coffee. Black. The exact roast he preferred was brewed at the exact temperature he considered optimal. He didn't touch it, not yet. He just stared at it, his exhausted brain slowly cataloguing the implications.

He flipped through the notes you left, everything logged in your handwriting, the same handwriting he'd seen on countless similar reports. You'd noticed supplies running low that even he hadn't gotten around to auditing yet.

His jaw tightened.

And then, the pen. He picked it up, turning it over in his tattooed fingers. It was his favorite pen, the one his father had given him before. He'd noticed it missing after the mission but hadn't had the energy to go searching. And now here it was, whole again. The break was visible only if you knew exactly where to look. The solder work was a chef's kiss.

He then unfolded the note

"Captain,

Fixed your pen. Hope you don't mind. Don't work too late, even geniuses need sleep. You really de-LIVERed on today's mission!!! ;b

- Y/N

P.S. I heard bitter things when you're in a bad mood. I added an extra scoop of grounds. If it's terrible, blame bepo."

He read it three times. The paper was ordinary. The words were ordinary, the joke was beyond corny, But the context, the context was like a blade, sliding between his ribs with surgical precision.

You knew how he took his coffee. You cared to memorized it. You fixed something he hadn't mentioned. You found it broken, recognized its value, and repaired it without seeking credit or thanks. You noticed his exhaustion. Everyone else on the crew had given him his space, which was what he wanted. But you seen it, the overstimulation, the weariness and instead of avoiding him, you left him medicine for it.

This wasn't a simple act of crewmate goodwill. This wasn't politeness or obligation. This was attention. The kind of attention no one had ever given him for a long time. The kind of attention that saw through his cold facade and cared for him anyway.

Something stirred in his chest. Something old. Something hungry.

He sat down heavily in his chair, still holding the note. The coffee cooled. He didn't drink it. He was too busy thinking.

This was attention. The kind of attention no one had ever given him before. The kind of attention that saw through his cold facade and—

Stop.

He shook his head sharply, the motion sending a spike of pain through his exhausted skull.

"I don't even know her," he muttered to the empty room, his voice rough with fatigue. "She's… goofy. What am I thinking? I need sleep."

He was over-analyzing. That was all. He was a tired sleep-deprived surgeon projecting meaning onto a simple act of crewmate courtesy. She was Penguin's friend, grateful for the medical care, repaying a debt. Nothing more. Nothing significant.

He finally picked up the coffee and took a sip.

It was perfect. Exactly the right temperature. Exactly the right bitterness. She'd brewed it exactly the way he liked it, the way he'd never told anyone, the way he assumed no one had ever noticed.

He smiled.

It was a small, involuntary thing. A crack in his carefully maintained facade. He caught himself a moment later and forced his expression back to neutrality, but it was too late. The damage was done.

That smile was the first crack in the dam.

He tried to ignore you after that night. Genuinely, actively tried.

It should have been easy. You were one crewmate among many. You worked in engineering, what was closest to your previous experience, far from the medical bay where he spent most of his time. Your paths rarely crossed outside of your weekly check-ups. He could simply… not think about you.

But his mind refused to cooperate.

Against his will, he noticed things.

It started small. So small that no one else on the crew would have detected a change. Law had always been meticulous, detail-oriented to the point of obsession. If he suddenly started attending every meal in the galley instead of eating alone in his office, well, perhaps he was just feeling more sociable. If he happened to sit at the corner table where he had a clear view of you laughing with Penguin and Shachi, well, it was his galley. He could sit where he wanted. The corner table had always been his favorite. The lighting was optimal. The noise levels were lower. It had nothing to do with you.

Nothing at all…

But his grey eyes tracked your movements regardless of his intentions. He noted the exact time you arrived, 06:47, two minutes later than usual on Tuesdays. He noted the exact portions you took, small breakfast, medium lunch, small dinner, with a preference for bread after missions and always needing one sweet thing a day. He noted the exact number of times you laughed at someone else's joke, an average of 3.4 times per meal, with Penguin and Bepo drawing the highest response rates.

He kept noticing you. And he hated it.

Or rather, he told himself he hated it. The truth was far more uncomfortable. He couldn't stop. The data was just there, presenting itself to his mind whether he wanted it or not. He'd spent his entire adult life training himself to observe,. There was nothing special about you.

Despite this your routines slowly shaped his day. Like a high school girl memorizing her crushes class schedule he memorized your daily schedule in detail

Three Weeks Later

You sat on your usual crate near the port railing, a steaming mug of coffee cradled in your hands, light, two sugars, the polar opposite of the bitter drink you'd made for the captain that night. The sunrise was painting the sea in shades of gold and rose.

You'd been feeling stronger lately. The coughing fits were rare now, and when they came, they were shallow things, easily suppressed. But the check-ups made you nervous nonetheless. They always did. Lying on that examination table while Law's cold grey eyes scanned you like a specimen under glass, it was intimidating.

"You're five minutes early this morning."

The voice came from directly behind you, and you very nearly dropped your coffee into the sea.

Law stood there, his ever-present sword propped against his shoulder, his expression unreadable. He wasn't looking at you, he was looking at the ocean, as if he'd just happened to wander over to this exact spot at this exact time for no particular reason.

"Captain!" You pressed a hand to your hammering heart. "You scared me. Good morning?"

"Your schedule," he said, as if that explained anything. "You usually come out at 06:45. It's 06:40."

You blinked. "I… couldn't sleep. Figured I'd get an early start?" You tilted your head, studying his profile. "I didn't realize you kept track of my coffee schedule."

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I don't. I keep track of everyone's. Routine is essential on a submarine. Deviations indicate potential problems."

“OH sorry for assuming… thats embarrasing” you said sheeplishy rubbing your messy hair. He finally glanced at you, his grey eyes flicking over your face with clinical precision. "You look tired. Nightmares again?"

Your stomach dropped. How could he possibly, no, you were being ridiculous. He was a doctor. He probably noticed the dark circles under your eyes. That was all.

"Just a little restless," you said, forcing a casual smile. "Nothing to worry about."

"Mm." He didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. Instead, he turned and walked away without another word, his long coat billowing behind him.

You stared after him, your coffee forgotten.

What a good captain, you thought, shaking your head. Always looking out for his crew.

Two Days Later

The galley was bustling, filled with the clatter of dishes and the comfortable chaos of pirates eating together. You'd decided to eat with Bepo today instead of your usual noon meal, a spontaneous choice born from the simple desire to spend time with your favorite fluffy friend.

You didn't think anything of it. Why would you?

Until a shadow fell over your tray.

"You missed lunch."

Law stood behind you, a tray of his own in his tattooed hands. His expression was neutral, but there was something in his grey eyes, a flicker of something you couldn't quite name.

You blinked up at him. "I wasn't hungry."

"That isn't an acceptable reason." He placed a small wrapped onigiri beside your bowl without waiting for permission, the motion so smooth it seemed almost automatic. "Your caloric intake has been below baseline for three days. Eat."

You stared at the onigiri, then back at him. "You've been tracking my caloric intake?"

"It's in your medical file. I track everyone's." The response was immediate, practiced. "You're still recovering. Skipping meals is counterproductive to your lung tissue regeneration."

"Oh." You picked up the onigiri, a strange warmth blooming in your chest. "That's… really thoughtful, Captain. Thank you."

He didn't acknowledge the thanks. Instead, his gaze shifted to Bepo, who was mid-reach for the fish cake on your plate.

"Bepo."

The polar bear froze, his paw hovering guiltily over your food.

"If you're still hungry, there's more in the galley. You don't need to steal from y/n-ya's tray."

Bepo's ears drooped. "I'm sorry, Captain."

Law didn't respond, but he did something unexpected, he sat down. At your table. With you and Bepo. His tray joined yours on the worn metal surface, and he began eating with the same quiet, methodical precision he did everything else.

Bepo, delighted by this unprecedented development, immediately launched into a story about a dream he'd had. You laughed, shoving holding onto his shoulder affectionately. I mean hes like a giant teddy bear how could you not hold onto him

It was a warm, easy moment. The kind of moment you'd grown used to sharing with your crewmates your time on the crew.

But you didn't notice how Law's chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth. You didn't see the flicker of something cold and sharp flash through his grey eyes as your hand touched Bepo's furry shoulder. It was nothing in retrospect, a friendly touch between friends. Crewmates touched each other all the time. It meant nothing.

But Law filed it away nonetheless. Another data point.

Later that evening, Bepo found himself assigned to solo night watch for the next two weeks. When he asked Law why, the captain simply shrugged.

"You seemed restless. Some structure will do you good."

It was logical. It was reasonable. It was completely, utterly calculated. He denied it coming from any place of jealousy

And it was only the beginning.

The Next Week

The medical bay was cold and sterile, as always. You sat on the examination table, trying not to shiver in the thin hospital gown, while Law reviewed your latest vitals on his clipboard.

"Lung capacity is at 87%," he said, not looking up. "Up from 82% last month. The scar tissue is continuing to recede. You've responded well to the treatment."

"That's good, right?" You smiled, swinging your legs slightly. "I've been feeling a lot better. I even ran the other day without getting winded."

"I'm aware."

“Huh?”

He set down the clipboard quickly and finally met your eyes. "Jean Bart mentioned it. He was impressed."

Jean Bart had mentioned it? You hadn't realized anyone had been watching. But Law was the captain, of course he'd receive reports on crew performance. It was his job to know these things you reasoned to yourself.

"Alright," he said, gesturing to the examination table. "Lie back. I want to do one more scan before we adjust your medication."

You obeyed, settling against the thin pillow and staring up at the fluorescent lights. Law's hand moved in a gesture you'd grown familiar with, and the blue sphere of his Room expanded around you, humming with energy. You felt the strange, pulling sensation of his Scan washing over you, mapping every cell, every organ, every hidden corner of your body.

It should have felt invasive. It probably was invasive. But after months of these check-ups, you'd grown accustomed to it. It was just Law being thorough. Law being a good doctor. Law being a good captain.

"There's still some minor inflammation," he murmured, more to himself than to you. "I'm going to adjust your anti-inflammatory dosage. You'll take it twice daily instead of once."

"Got it."

The Room faded, and you sat up, already reaching for your clothes. But as you moved, your eyes caught on something unexpected.

There was a hole in his hat.

It was small, barely noticeable. A worn spot near the brim where the white fabric had frayed and torn, probably from a close call during a recent mission. You'd never noticed it before. But now that you'd seen it, you couldn't unsee it. That hat was part of him. He never took it off. Seeing it damaged felt… wrong.

"Captain, your hat," you said, pointing.

He frowned, reaching up to touch the brim. "What about it?"

"There's a hole. Here." You hopped off the examination table and shuffled over, getting close and extending your body as far as you can you took the hat from his head.

He went absolutely still.

"I can fix it," you said, with a gummy smile turning the hat over in your hands. "It's a small tear. I've got a sewing kit in my quarters! I patch up the crew's boiler suits all the time. It'll take me five minutes swear."

You didn't wait for permission. You were already skipping toward the door, the hat cradled carefully in your hands.

"Y/n-ya—"

"I'll bring it right back!"

You returned twelve minutes later, the hat good as new. The patch was nearly invisible, a careful bit of stitching that reinforced the worn spot without altering the hat's shape or appearance. You'd even matched the thread color perfectly.

Law was still standing exactly where you'd left him, his expression unreadable. His hair, usually hidden beneath the hat, was messier than you'd expected. black and slightly wavy, falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger.

"Here," you said, stepping close. "Good as new."

You reached up, styled his hair as best as you could and placed the hat back on his head, adjusting it carefully. Your fingers brushed his hair as you settled it into its proper position, a feather-light touch, barely there. When you were satisfied, you let your hands drop and met his eyes.

He was staring at you.

His grey eyes were intense, unblinking, filled with something you couldn't quite identify. For a long, suspended moment, neither of you moved. The air between you felt charged, electric, like the atmosphere before a storm.

After a while he looked away.

"Thank you," he said, his voice carefully flat. "That wasn't necessary."

"I know." You smiled, bright, genuine, goofy. "I wanted to."

He didn't respond. He just turned back to his clipboard, his shoulders slightly stiff, his jaw slightly tight.

You left the medical bay feeling strangely light. It felt good to help him for once. It felt good to see the captain as something other than cold and distant.You were finally becoming friends.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once you left, the medical bay fell into a silence so profound it felt almost sacred. Law stood exactly where you had left him, clipboard forgotten in his hands, staring at the door that had swung shut behind you.

His hands were trembling.

He looked down at them as if they belonged to a stranger. The same hands that had performed surgeries with inhuman precision, and switched the hearts of emperors, they were shaking. Because of you. Because you had reached up and touched his hat. Because your fingers had brushed his hair. Because you had looked into his eyes with that ridiculous, smile and seen something worth caring for.

He didn't move. Not for a full minute. Not for five. Not for ten.

He stood motionless in the sterile silence, replaying the moment in a loop so obsessive it made him feel icked at himself. The soft brush of your fingers against his forehead. The warmth of your proximity. The way your eyes had crinkled at the corners when you'd smiled and said I wanted to. As if caring for him was something you did naturally. As if noticing the hole in his hat was just another casual act of kindness.

You hadn't known what that hat meant to him. You couldn't have known. And yet you'd repaired it with love, without asking for nothing in return.

He finally moved, setting down the clipboard with a clatter. His legs carried him through the rest of the day on autopilot. His mind was consumed by you.

That night, Law sat in his office long after the rest of the crew had gone to sleep. The submarine was silent aside from the low hum of the engines, a sound as familiar as his own heartbeat. The repaired pen sat on his desk beside a fresh mug of coffee that had long since gone cold. But his attention was fixed on his hand held in his hands

He lifted it carefully, almost and held it in his lap. His tattooed fingers found the patch, that nearly invisible stitching that closed the worn spot near the brim. His fingertips traced the thread, back and forth for what felt like hours. The texture was slightly different from the original fabric.

The sensation of the thread burned him.

His chest constricted. His breath came shorter, shallower the longer he traced the thread. His heart was beating faster. You had done something to him. You had reached inside his chest with your kindness and your goofy smile and your gentle hands, and you had rearranged things.

Without thinking he lifted the hat to his face.

He pressed his lips to the thread.

The kiss was soft.

His eyes closed. Against his mouth, the thread was slightly rough, a different texture than the worn fabric around it. She had chosen this thread. She had threaded this needle. She had pulled these stitches tight, one by one, mending what was broken. The coffee. The pen. The inventory notes. This hat.

She could mend anything broken, it seemed. It was the only logical conclusion, and Law was nothing if not a creature of logic. He had watched you for weeks now. He had catalogued every interaction, every quiet act of service, every moment you reached out and made something better with nothing but your hands and your kindness. You fixed valves, patched boiler suits, repaired pens, and mended hats. You healed what was wounded. You made things whole.

Could you… Maybe mend him?

The thought hit him hard. His grip on the hat tightened until his knuckles went white.

He was broken. He had been broken for as long as he could remember. Flevance had shattered him. Cora-san's death had shattered him further. Doflamingo had taken the pieces and ground them to dust. What remained of Trafalgar Law, the boy who had wanted to be a doctor like his father, was broken, held together by revenge and rage and the cold, clinical need for control. He was not whole. He had not been whole for twenty years.

But you.

You mended things. It was what you did. It was who you were. You saw a hole, and you stitched it closed. You saw something broken, and you made it functional again. You had done it for his pen. You had done it for his hat. You had done it for his crew, his ship, his world.

Could you fix him?

Could you look at the wreckage of the man he had become and see something worth saving?

He wanted to let you try. The wanting was a hunger, a thirst, a sickness for which there was no cure. He wanted to place himself in your hands and say, " Fix me”.

Because you would. He knew you would.

Law sat alone in the dim light of his cabin, legs spread, elbows on his knees. Your hat rested in his hands. He brought it to his face once again and inhaled slowly, greedily. Salt. Metal. That faint floral trace of your shampoo. The scent of your hands after you’d been working on the ship’s engines all day. The scent of care. The scent of the only person who had ever looked at him and seen something worth saving.

His grey eyes darkened.

He could almost imagine it was you. The fantasy twisted. He wanted to open you up. Not to hurt you, never to destroy you. Just to see. To understand what made you so fucking perfect. He wanted to create a Room around your body, lay you out on his operating table, and part your skin with surgical precision. No pain. Only the cool blue light of his power and his bare hands exploring you.

He would trace every vessel, every delicate branch of your arteries. He would lift your beating heart into his palm and feel its rhythm against his fingers while you stared up at him innocently, trusting, flushed, alive.

“Look at this… so clean. So perfectly arranged. Even your insides are beautiful.” Law’s breath hitched. His cock was already straining against his jeans, heavy and aching. He palmed himself once, slowly, then unzipped with steady hands. The sound of metal teeth parting was loud in the silence.

He freed his length, thick and flushed, the head already glistening. Wrapping your hat around his shaft, he groaned low in his throat at the soft fabric. It still carried your warmth, your scent. He stroked up once, firm, twisting slightly at the head the way he liked. His eyes half-closed. He imagined you lying open beneath him, chest parted like curtains, lungs fluttering, heart exposed and beating just for him. He would lean down and press his lips to that heart while it still pulsed. He would taste iron and life and you. Then he would close you again without a scar, kiss your forehead, and whisper that no one else would ever get this close. No one else would ever know you the way he did.

His hand moved faster. The hat grew damp with precum as he fucked into the fabric, hips rolling up in controlled thrusts. His messy black hair fell into his eyes. The tattoos on his fingers flexed with every stroke. He was panting now, quiet, measured, but unraveling. He wanted to keep you. Not just in his bed. Not just under his protection. He wanted you inside his Room every night. He wanted to dissect you and put you back together again just to prove he could. He wanted to crawl inside your ribcage and live there. He wanted to be the only medicine you ever needed.

A broken moan left his throat.

He pressed the hat tighter around his cock, imagining it was the soft heat between your thighs, imagining your voice whispering his name while he split you open in every possible way.

His grey eyes snapped open at the last second.

With a low, guttural groan, he came hard, thick ropes of cum spilling into the inside of his hat, pulse after pulse, until the fabric was soaked and ruined with him. His whole body shuddered with the force of it.

He’d stopped trying to deny it.

He stared down at the mess he’d made inside the hat, chest still heaving. A small, dangerous smile curved his lips.

“I need her,” he quietly said to himself

It was logical, he told himself. He was a doctor. You were his patient. He was the captain. You were his crewmate. You were his responsibility. Of course he should monitor your health. Of course he should track your routines, your habits, your interactions. It was preventative care. It was good captaincy. It was perfectly, utterly reasonable.

The fact that he could now list every food you preferred, every joke that made you laugh, every person who made you smile, that was just thoroughness.

The fact that he'd memorized the sound of your footsteps, the rhythm of your breathing, the exact shade of your eyes, hair, fingertips, the way he knew when you were happy versus when you were tired, that was just observation.

The fact that he knew the precise cadence of your laughter, the way your nose scrunched when you were concentrating, the unconscious little hum you made when you were working on something difficult, that was just pattern recognition. He was a doctor. It was his job to notice details.

The fact that he could still feel the ghost of your fingers on his skin like a burn that would not heal, that was just….

His hand clenched around the hat.

The fact that he'd kissed the thread you'd touched. The fact that he'd pressed his mouth to a piece of fabric because your hands had been there, because he wanted those hands on him, because he needed those hands on him the way a dying man needs a surgeon, the fact that he was sitting alone in the dark at three in the morning, aching with a hunger he could no longer pretend was clinical concern….

That was something else entirely.

He set the hat down carefully, almost tenderly, and reached into the drawer of his desk. The black journal waited there, hidden beneath a stack of old patient files. He opened it to a fresh page and began to write.

Today she repaired my hat. She noticed the damage without being told. She took it from my head without fear. Her hands were gentle. Her touch was warm. She smiled at me when she finished—that smile, the goofy one, the one that makes her eyes crinkle. She said she wanted to help me. She meant it.

She mends things. It's what she does. Pens. Hats. Inventory. People. She sees something broken and she fixes it without being asked. She doesn't do it for recognition. She does it because she can't seem to help herself. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed.

I want her to mend me.

There. I've written it. Let the record show that Trafalgar Law, the Surgeon of Death, wants a woman he barely knows to stitch together the pieces of his fractured soul. It's irrational. It's pathetic. It's the truest thing I've ever admitted to myself.

You are mine, y/n-ya. You just don't know it yet.

But you will.

And when you do, you'll understand that I'm not just your captain. I'm your patient. Your project. Your broken thing. The only person in this world I trust to make me whole is you.

Only you.

Always you.

He closed the journal slowly, deliberately, and locked it in the drawer. The coffee was stone cold. The submarine hummed around him. The hat sat on the desk before him, the patch you'd sewn visible in the dim light.

He touched the thread again. Pressed his thumb against the stitches. Felt that same searing warmth bloom beneath his skin, a brand that would not fade, a reminder that would not let him sleep.

Perfect. You were perfect. Every detail, every variable, every piece of data he collected only confirmed what he was increasingly certain of. You were the most beautiful, fascinating, infuriating thing he'd ever encountered. You were the flaw in his system that had become the system itself. You were the disease he didn't want to cure, the wound he didn't want to close, the broken thing that had somehow made him feel less broken just by existing in his orbit.

And you didn't even know..

In the morning, you would smile at him over breakfast. You would think he was just being a good captain. You would have no idea that he'd spent the night humping the hat you fixed pathetically. You would have no idea that he'd offered you his whole being and asked you, in the silence of his own heart, to do the impossible.

[inseobts]

may I request another Luffy x fem reader please. Where Luffy is always picking up y/n like anywhere and everywhere they go (they aren’t dating or anything yet either) and he’s just always carrying her. Maybe even one day she’s wearing a skirt and so she freaks out when Luffy goes to grab her but Luffy holds her skirt down while carrying her. I don’t know I feel like it would be cute. Thank you!

Up You Go!

luffy x fem!reader

words count: 1.6k

tags: fluffy, sfw, humour, jealous luffy

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

“Y/N! Let’s go!”

You barely turn around before Luffy swoops in and lifts you off the ground like you weigh nothing.

“Luffy! I can walk, you know!” you squawk, flailing a little as he plops you onto his back.

“But this is faster” he grins, arms hooked under your thighs like it’s second nature.

You’re used to it. Kind of.

Everywhere the Straw Hats go, it’s the same thing. Town visit? Pick-up. Battle? Pick-up. Beach walk? Pick-up. You’ve lost count how many times he’s carried you.

“Oi, Luffy, you treating her like your personal backpack again?” Zoro calls out, amused.

“She is more comfortable than my backpack” Luffy says proudly.

“I am not a backpack” you mutter, crossing your arms from behind him.

But you don’t jump down. Luffy’s warm. His back is strong and steady. Plus…he hums when he walks, and it’s kind of nice.

Later that day, Nami wants to shop in the market square, so you tag along. You’re wearing a cute skirt, just something light and breezy. Totally forgot that Luffy might be Luffy.

You hear his steps behind you.

You turn slowly “Luffy, don’t you dare.”

“What?” he blinks.

“No pick-ups! I’m in a skirt!”

“Skirt?” he repeats, glancing down.

“Yes. Skirt. No pick-ups. Bad idea.” You point a finger at him.

He tilts his head like you just told him food is illegal “But I always carry you.”

You groan “Not today. Please.”

He frowns “…Okay.”

You’re shocked. He listens?

“Thank you—AH!”

Too late. Arms wrap around you, lifting you straight off the ground.

“LUFFY!”

“Don’t worry!” he says, grinning as you flail.

Then his hand tugs your skirt down, carefully holding it in place as he walks.

You freeze “…Did you just—?”

“Yeah,” he says simply “You said skirt.”

“…And you still picked me up.”

“Yup!”

You sigh, but your cheeks are hot. Luffy, meanwhile, just hums again like it’s the most normal thing ever.

“Next time, I’m wearing pants...” you mutter.

It’s been three days since the “skirt incident”.

You thought maybe Luffy would chill after that. Stop treating you like some kind of travel-sized accessory.

But no. You hear him before you see him.

“Y/N!”

You turn around, already tensing “Don’t you—”

Too late. He’s already in front of you. But this time, he doesn’t throw you over his shoulder or anything like that.

Nope.

He scoops you up. Like a princess.

Both arms under your back and knees. Smooth, gentle.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

“W-What the hell is this now?!”

“You said skirts were hard,” Luffy shrugs, totally calm “So I’m trying something new!”

“You can also not carry me at all! That’s also an option!”

He just blinks at you “But I like carrying you.”

Your face heats up. You glance around, Sanji’s dropped a tray, Robin’s smirking, and Usopp’s whispering something to Chopper.

“This is so embarrassing!” you hiss, curling a little into his chest.

Luffy just laughs “Why? You look cute like this.”

You go still “…What did you say?”

“Huh?”

“What did you just say?”

He tilts his head “You look cute like this. Why? Did I say it wrong?”

“No! I mean—yes! I mean—ugh!”

You bury your face in your hands as Luffy keeps walking down the Sunny like nothing’s weird.

“Nami’s gonna kill you” you mumble.

“She’ll get over it” he grins.

“I won’t.”

“Yes, you will.”

You kind of…do.

His arms are warm. He doesn’t drop you. He even adjusts his grip so your skirt stays down and your hair doesn’t blow in your face.

He’s just…too good at this.

You peek up at him “Luffy?”

“Yeah?”

“…You really like carrying me, huh?”

He grins wide “Yup.”

“…Why?”

He shrugs “Feels right.”

Your heart skips.

Stupid pirate...

Sunny is docked at a lively island. Music, food, games... perfect for a break. The whole crew splits up, scattering into the crowd like kids at a festival.

You’re with Sanji, trying a fried octopus ball he insists is “the best in the world”.

“Open up, mademoiselle~” Sanji offers you one with a big, cheesy grin.

You laugh and lean forward, just as—

“Oi.”

Luffy’s voice cuts in sharp and sudden.

You look over your shoulder, mouth full “Mmm?”

Luffy’s standing there, arms crossed. His usual smile is gone. That’s rare. Really rare.

Sanji raises an eyebrow “What’s up, Luffy?”

Luffy doesn’t answer. He just walks over, grabs your hand and picks you up.

Again. Princess style.

“LUFFY!” you yelp “What are you—?!”

“No more feeding her.” he says, glaring at Sanji like he just kicked Chopper.

Sanji sighs dramatically, flicking his cigarette “Jealousy doesn’t suit you... Captain.”

“I’m not jealous,” Luffy lies, squeezing you a little tighter “She’s mine.”

Your brain short-circuits.

“Yours?!” you squeak.

Luffy frowns “Yeah. I mean—not like mine-mine. But like—she’s my crewmate. I always carry her. You don’t get to feed her.”

Sanji puts a hand to his chest “How romantic.”

“Shut up” Luffy grumbles.

Your heart is pounding so loud you swear Sanji can hear it.

“Luffy, you really didn’t need to—”

“Didn’t like it...” he mumbles.

“What?”

“You laughing with him. Eating with him. That’s supposed to be with me.”

You stare at him, stunned “…You really are jealous.”

He scowls at the sky “I said I’m not!”

Then he stomps off with you still in his arms.

“Luffy, where are we going?!”

“Somewhere with no cooks.”

You’re now sitting on a quiet hill, eating takoyaki with your fingers while Luffy sits beside you, pouting.

“…So,” you say after a while, “do you only carry people you’re jealous over?”

“No,” he mutters “Just you.”

“…Why me?”

He doesn’t look at you “Feels right.”

You smile a little. Same answer. But it’s starting to feel like it means something more.

The sun’s almost down by the time you both make it back to the Sunny.

Luffy’s still quiet. Not sulking, just…thinking. You don’t see that often. He scratches his cheek, eyes on the sky, lips pressed in a line.

You’re walking this time. He hasn’t picked you up again.

And somehow, that feels weirder.

You glance at him “You’re not gonna carry me?”

He stops walking. Looks at you. Then shrugs “Didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

You blink “You’ve been doing it for months without asking.”

He tilts his head “Yeah, but… I didn’t know it made your heart beat fast until today.”

Your breath catches “Huh?”

“You always get all red,” he says, frowning slightly “I thought maybe you didn’t like it. But then Sanji made you laugh, and you got all red then, too. So now I’m not sure.”

You stare at him “Luffy… you noticed all that?”

He nods “I notice you.”

Your chest tightens.

He rubs the back of his neck “I didn’t mean to get weird about Sanji. I just… I like carrying you. Being close to you. Makes me happy.”

“…Even before all this? Before the skirt? The market? All of it?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking right at you “Since the first time.”

You step closer, eyes searching his “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I don’t know,” he says “Didn’t know what to call it. Just knew it felt right.”

You smile, heart thudding so loud now you know he hears it.

“So… what now?”

He grins slowly “Now I pick you up.”

You laugh “Right now?!”

“Yup.”

And just like always, you’re in the air, arms around his neck, legs cradled in his hold. But this time, his face is closer. Slower.

This time, he leans in.

His forehead rests against yours “Is this okay?”

You nod, cheeks burning “Yeah. It is.”

And then, finally, finally, he kisses you.

It’s soft. Just a brush. But it’s everything.

Luffy pulls back, still holding you like treasure.

“I’m gonna carry you everywhere now” he says.

You smile “You already do.”

You try to sneak back onto the Sunny quietly. You really try.

But Luffy is still carrying you. Princess style. Smiling like he just found a whole island made of meat. And your lips are pink, your hair’s a little messy, and you’re trying not to look like you were just kissed by the future Pirate King.

It doesn’t work.

Sanji spots you first “Mon dieu…” he gasps dramatically, hand over his chest “He kissed you, didn’t he?!”

“Shhh!” you hiss, trying to wiggle out of Luffy’s arms.

He doesn’t let go “Why? We’re dating now, right?”

You freeze “…We are?”

He nods “Yeah. That’s what kissing means.”

Zoro walks by, towel around his neck “Took you long enough.”

You blink “Wait—you knew?”

He snorts “Captain’s been carrying you like a newlywed for weeks. We all knew.”

Usopp pops his head out of the kitchen “I bet Chopper three berries you’d kiss by today! I won!”

Chopper stomps out after him “You cheated! You saw them holding hands earlier!”

Franky grins from above deck “This is SUPER romantic!”

Brook twirls his cane “May I write a song about this moment? Love On the Deck of Sunny?”

Nami appears last. Arms crossed. Eyebrow raised.

“So. Are you two gonna stop being weird now, or is the kissing gonna happen everywhere?”

Luffy grins “Everywhere.”

You slap a hand over your face “Luffy—”

“What? I like you,” he shrugs “I’m proud.”

Nami sighs “Great. The captain’s in love. We’re doomed.”

But there’s a soft smile tugging at her lips.

Robin, reading nearby, chuckles “Let them be. It’s cute.”

You finally give up and just hide your red face in Luffy’s shoulder. He laughs and holds you tighter.

The crew carries on bickering, teasing, laughing like always.

Only now… you’re his. And he’s yours. And he still carries you everywhere.

And yeah... It still feels right.

[demonpiratehuntress]

pillar of strength

OPLA!Zoro x F!Reader

summary - Zoro takes great pride in the fact that you openly seek comfort from him when you need it

warnings - SPOILERS for season 2

a/n - this was mostly borne from my own vulnerability, not meant to make anyone feel weak or pathetic or anything, so please don't think you're weak in this fic

It was no secret that Zoro was the second strongest Straw Hat. He had proved it time and time again, surpassing everyone except maybe Luffy in raw strength.

But surpassing everyone including Luffy in brutality.

Everyone but you found that terrifying. While they were all afraid of his very aggressive nature, you found comfort in it. In fact, he was the crewmember that made you feel the safest.

And not just because he was your boyfriend.

The Merry made it to Reverse Mountain. After a very eventful visit to Loguetown, your crew had reached the most dangerous entryway into the Grand Line, and your captain faced the dangers head on while the rest of you scrambled around behind him.

And then came the drop.

You felt your heart sink when you saw the steepness of your descent, your eyes widening enough to betray your nervousness.

But as soon as his familiar arm wrapped around your waist, anchoring you firmly to his broad chest, you felt your entire body relax. Because you knew his grip was iron-clad - he would never let you fall.

Zoro watched your body relax against his, and a profound sense of satisfaction filled him. He would never openly admit it, he didn't do earnest emotions, but making you feel safe was his biggest pride.

"You okay?" He murmured into your ear, instinctively lowering his face into your neck as your familiar scent filled his nose.

"Yeah, great," you answered with a shaky smile, though your voice came out a little high-pitched. Your hand came to rest atop his on your stomach, his skin warm and soothing under your touch.

"Hmm," he hummed, then pressed the softest kiss to your shoulder - an act that belied his usual aggressive behaviour.

The next time you instinctively sought him out was when the two assassins had escaped while the crew was distracted by the appearance of an island ahead. As you turned to look at the pair, your hand found his and you laced your fingers together, a gesture that spoke louder than any verbal cry for reassurance.

He turned to look at you, and when no one was looking, the smallest of smiles touched his lips as he noticed the ease in your posture when your hand gripped his.

Pride swelled in his chest once more.

You felt his gaze and turned to look at him, your cheeks getting warm, "What?"

"Nothing," he murmured, "You're cute when you rely on me."

Your cheeks burned hotter, your heart skipping a few beats.

In Whiskey Peak, you stuck to his side like glue. Walked side by side, hand in hand, through the streets. Sat at the bar with you on his lap, one arm hooked around your waist while the other held a bottle. If he needed to use a hand, he'd sooner let go of the alcohol than you - which spoke volumes.

During the fight with the hundred Baroque Works agents, Zoro was flying across the tavern cutting them down like they were nothing but air. You tried to join him, but he was a blur of silver and green, and before you could even get to an agent, they were dead.

And then there was the big one.

"Zoro!"

The minute he heard you call him, he cut down the agent in front of him, vaulted over the stairs railing, and put himself between the big guy and you. One hand reaching behind him to make sure you were a safe distance away.

"Go help those two idiots," he nodded towards where Usopp and Sanji sat tied up, without taking his eyes off the massive agent that had threatened you.

You ran over to cut your crewmembers loose without argument, but looked over your shoulder to watch your boyfriend swiftly dispatch that agent too. You were about to take care of the ones who'd tied Usopp and Sanji up, but Zoro cut them down on his way back up to Mister 9, glancing back once to make sure you were okay.

The one rare moment where you protected him came when he faced off against Miss Monday and Mister 9. You let yourself be caught by Mister 9's ropes that shot out from his bats, flinching when he tugged hard enough to string you up like meat.

Zoro growled, "Big mistake."

And swiftly took care of both of them. And another who seemingly came out of nowhere. When it was done, you immediately moved into his arms and he already knew what you needed. With a vulnerability he only showed to you, he wrapped his arms around you and practically crushed you against his chest, his breathing slightly heavy but otherwise unharmed.

Little Garden was...complicated.

But when Mister 3 wiped the paint off your boyfriend's leg, his immediate reaction was to find you. His eyes darted around until they landed on you, standing next to him also half-encased in wax.

"You're okay," he mumbled, more to himself than you, completely ignoring the assassins in front of him.

When you broke free, courtesy of Usopp, you barely ducked a bomb thrown your way by Mister 5. Zoro growled low in his throat, knocking another aside with one of his swords.

"Coward," he glared at the Baroque Works agent. "Focus on me. Unless you're scared, even with me trapped in wax."

That seemed to work, getting Mister 5's attention off you long enough for you to rush to Usopp's aid. Behind you, your boyfriend skillfully held Mister 5 at bay, not even breaking a sweat. As you propped your sharpshooter friend up, however, he insisted on helping Zoro and called out to him to fire a flaming star.

You were left in awe at the sight of Zoro leaping from the wax cake with his swords aflame, before promptly slicing Mister 5's abdomen deeply enough to instantly kill.

But it wasn't just during attacks.

On the ship after your adventure in Little Garden, you would go up to him and just wrap your arms around him or bury your face in his neck. Sometimes burrow into his chest like a kitten seeking warmth.

"Hmm," Zoro would hum in satisfaction, strong arms engulfing you in warmth, safety and comfort.

"You're the embodiment of safety and security, you know that?" You mumbled into his chest, tightening your arms around his bulky torso. "Any time I see you, I know I'm safe."

Zoro's breath caught, any thoughts he had dissipating in his mind at your sincere, heartfelt words. Then he held you a little bit tighter, conveying silently how much your words meant to him, in a way he could never put into words.

Then again in Drum Kingdom, the swordsman was your safety net.

"What the hell are those?" Your eyes widened as you handed Zoro the binoculars, your heart thundering in your chest.

The swordsman settled on hand on the small of your back, a gesture you found to be very calming. Even without words. He pulled you back, settled both hands on your waist, and kissed you. Not for long, but just enough.

So when the monsters came knocking, you didn't feel so afraid.

Every time you thought your strength was waning, every doubt that crossed your mind about getting out of this...you looked over at him fighting his hardest and were instantly motivated to push onward.

And after everything, he still insisted on carrying you through the tunnel up to the castle. He still insisted on lifting you up into Chopper's sleigh.

These weren't acts of service. He believed that word implied obligation. But he did it because he wanted to. Because he needed to. Because it was now a basic instinct to protect you, to care for you, to ensure you could always depend on him.

As you watched him lift Chopper onto his shoulder, your heart felt full. Your chest felt warm. Your stomach fluttered.

Because you knew you'd fallen in love with the right man.

[floatyflowers]

Not supposed to be...||Dark! Aerion, Jacaerys, Baelor x Reader

Summary: Imagine waking up in a 'medieval dragon fantasy' that feels more like a glitch in the Matrix. Your new husband? He’s either the brother who excelled at getting under your skin during  childhood or the uncle you haven't spoken to since last Christmas.

AERION TARGARYEN

Waking up as the wife of a white-haired version of your brother is not just unfortunate, it is a pure punishment you did not deserve.

And it isn't similiar to any Isekai story you read! You are supposed to marry a cruel prince and get on his good side.

Oh wait...

Aerion was insufferable in the modern world. The kind of person who'd set fire to something just to watch your reaction. You'd spent eighteen years learning to read  his moods like a minefield, and death, apparently, did nothing to rid you of the task.

Here, in this fantasy world of medieval halls and dragon-flame, he is worse. The arrogance you once dismissed as a personality flaw has calcified into something sharper, something worn like a crown, reinforced by a bloodline that tells him he is owed whatever he desires.

And what he desires, is you.

At first, you tried distance and cold silence. You took your meals alone, kept to your chambers, refused his bed. You thought if you became unpleasant enough, he would lose interest the way he always did, bored and onto the next fixation.

But Aerion does not bore of things he considers his. He simply tightens his grip.

He appeared where you appeared. Sat where you sat. Spoke when you refused to. And He treated your avoidance not as a boundary, but as a game.

One he had every intention of winning.

Desperate, you went to your father.

Maekar listened. He did not interrupt. And when you finished with hands tight in your lap, he regarded you with the flat, unmoved expression of a man who had heard far worse and cared far less.

"You are the one who begged for this match. You wept before the court until I relented. There is no dissolution of a union sworn before the Seven, you are bound to him until one of you is in the ground."

You left his solar with nothing.

And somehow Aerion learned what you had asked for.

He did not shout. That would come later. First came the silence, the door to your shared chamber softly, the slow pull of his gloves from his fingers, the way he stood by the hearth and simply looked at you, jaw working beneath the skin.

Then...

"Who is it?"

His voice was calm in the way a drawn blade is calm.

"There is no one-"

"Do not lie to me."

Aerion takes a step closer.

Then another.

"You go running to Father, pleading to be free of me, for what? So you can spread your legs for Valarr? Is that it?"

The accusation landed like a slap. Valarr,  yours and  his own cousin, a man who had shown you nothing more than common courtesy, well that's back in the modern world.

"You are mine," he said, close enough now that you could see the fire reflected in his pale lilac eyes. His hand found your jaw,  not bruising, not yet, but firm enough to hold you still.

"Sworn before gods and men. I will burn everything in  Summerhall to the ground before I let you forget it."

JACAERYS VALERYON

The last thing you remembered clearly was screaming at Jacaerys in the hallway of your shared house, with its flickering overhead lights and paper-thin walls.

"You hacked into my Instagram and messaged every guy I've ever talked to, Jace! Every single one!"

"They were using you."

"All twelve of them?! I'm calling Mom right now and telling her that you are acting up."

But before you could call Rhaenyra to expose him, you suddenly felt light headed before losing consciousness

You woke up choking on hearth smoke.

You heard the cooing, and Jacaerys sat beside you, but he looked different. His curls were longer, wilder. Leather and dark velvet replaced his usual oversized hoodie. A sword rested against his side like it belonged there.

"You're awake." Relief flooded his face. He caught your hand and kissed your knuckles. "The maester warned the fever might steal your memories. Tell me you know me."

"Jace?" Your voice sounded foreign.

"Your husband," he breathed in relief. "Yes."

You raise up in sudden shock, looking around you in fear and distress before your eyes lands on the baby laying beside you on the bed, playing with their wooden toy.

Honestly, you couldn't decide if they are a boy or a girl because of the red clothing the baby is wearing.

Seeing the confusion on your face, Jacaerys realizes you don't know the baby, and you might have after all, lost some of your memories.

"Whose baby is that?" you inquire, feeling like you already know the answer but you feared to hear it.

"That's our son, Aethan...you don't remember everything, do you?"

You stare at him in silence for a while, trying to decide whether you are in a dream or not.

But, this is real...too real.

"...I don't remember many things."

You already want your old life back, you don't like the stare your own brother is giving, this gentle lovesick stare.

What you didn't know, what you couldn't have known, was that the Jacaerys you had left behind in the world you might never return to, wore the exact same expression every time you turned away.

BAELOR TARGARYEN

The last thing you said to Baelor, in the world that made sense, was "Merry Christmas, drive safe," after your father forced you to say it, and you forced it out with a bored tone as if you didn't like the whole gathering.

And when you got into a car accident with your father and brothers, you didn't expect to wake up in this medieval era.

The roar hit you first.

A wall of sound, thousands of voices tangled together in a single, heaving breath of excitement, crashing over you like a wave you hadn't braced for.

Your hands gripped the arms of the chair beneath you, wood biting into your palms, and for a terrible, lurching moment you thought you were falling.

You weren't.

Seated in a raised gallery draped in red and black silk, overlooking a tournament field that stretched wider than any stadium you'd ever seen. Banners snapped in the wind, bright as stained glass. Knights in full plate circled the lists on warhorses that gleamed like polished stone. The sun was too bright. The air smelled of dust and horse sweat and something floral you couldn't name.

None of this was right.

You looked down. Your clothes were wrong. Deep burgundy velvet, gold thread catching the light at your sleeves and collar, layers upon layers of fabric that felt heavier than anything you'd ever worn.

There was a weight around your throat,  a necklace, you realized, a unique art shape of three-headed dragon wrought in dark metal.

Your breathing quickened.

"Okay. Okay. This is a dream. A very detailed, very committed dream."

"You look pale."

The voice came from your left, low and warm, the kind of voice that settled into a room rather than demanding attention from it.

You turned.

And your uncle Baelor was sitting beside you.

And he looked so authoritial with the way he dressed, looking like a prince or a king.

He was watching you with quiet concern, the way he always did at family gatherings when the tension between your father and his grew thick enough to choke on, that careful, measuring look that asked 'are you alright?' without making a production of it.

"Uncle Baelor?"

The name came out instinctively, dragged from the part of your brain that still believed you were in the real world, where Baelor was simply your father's older brother who showed up to Thanksgiving with good wine and a quiet demeanor, the one relative everyone agreed was too decent for the family he had been born into.

Something shifted in his expression.

It waz slight tension at the corner of his mouth. A flicker behind his eyes that you might have missed if you hadn't been looking directly at him. Not offense, exactly.

Something closer to discomfort, threaded with a patience that suggested this was not the first time he'd navigated this particular issue.

"Just Baelor," he corrects you.

You blinked in confusion. "What?"

"You needn't call me uncle." He shifted slightly in his seat, angling his body toward you. The movement was unhurried, natural, the ease of someone accustomed to being near you. "I have told you before. It sounds odd."

A beat of silence passed between you, filled by the distant crack of lance against shield and the crowd's answering roar.

"Odd?" you repeated, because your brain had snagged on the word and couldn't move past it. "Why would it sound odd? You are my uncle."

Baelor regarded you for a moment. His dark eyes searched your face with an attention that felt almost clinical, seeing if you are jesting with him like you usually do.

"Because I am also your husband."

You sat perfectly still.

"My-" The word lodged in your throat. "My what?"

"Husband." Baelor said it the way he said everything,  simply, then chuckling slightly, thinking you were messing with him.

"We were wed in the Great Sept three years past. Surely you haven't forgotten."

Three years, you have been married to a man older than your own father.

"I...no, that's not... you're my uncle."

"I am aware of the relation." There was the faintest trace of something dry in his tone, so subtle you almost missed it.

"It did not prevent the match. Nor, if I recall correctly, did you object to it."

"I definitely would have objected to it."

Baelor's brow creased. Not in anger,  you had never seen Baelor truly angry, not in this world or the one you had left behind.

"You are unwell," he said quietly. His hand moved to yours, and before you could pull away, his fingers settled over your knuckles with a gentleness that was almost worse than force.

His thumb traced a slow line across the back of your hand, absent and practiced, the gesture of a man who had done this a thousand times before. "You've been in the sun too long. We should return to our tent."

You try not to cry out in distress, only opening your mouth only to let out a few words.

"I feel like I'm going to be mentally unwell for a long time."

[bambeloniii]

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Everybody Knows That I'm a Good Girl, Officer

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tags: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, dubcon/noncon, toxic relationship, possessive behavior, corrupt cop, bully to lover, humiliation, praise kink, dom!aerion, coercion, dacryphilia, fingering, sex (p in v), handcuffs, public sex, size king, spit kink, orgasm denial, degradation, spanking, Stockholm syndrome vibes, yandere

pairing: cop!aerion x prostitute!reader

The roads were completely silent.

That should've been the first red flag.

Sure, there'd been quiet nights before. Nights where the only sound you heard for hours was the monotonous hum of car tires. Nights where you'd lost yourself staring into the dark abyss. Nights where you nearly froze in the cold before a customer pulled up.

But sooner or later, one always did.

Maybe a business man looking to blow off some steam after a hard day at the office. Or maybe some frustrated sixteen-year-old looking to lose his virginity.

Whatever the case, there was always gonna be a man willing to pay you for a fuck. Always.

The only reliable part of your life. More reliable than your family who'd steal the cash you kept under your pillow to buy some booze. More reliable than the high school that threw you out for a theft you didn't commit because it's easy to assume the apple doesn't fall from the tree. More reliable than the boyfriends who played savior only to start hitting you a week after you moved in.

If that's all you could count on, then so be it. God didn't give you many things, but he gave you your body. And you'd survive off of it.

It was hard in the beginning. You were a pretty romantic person. Sensitive. You loved love and thought that sex was sacred. Two bodies entwining as one. But such pretty thoughts aren't meant for trash like you. What you once considered your core belief was now not even an option.

You learned how to disassociate very well. You'd turn yourself off, no feelings, no emotions, and perform. Every moan, every arch of your back, every orgasm - calculated. Intentional. Meant to get him off quicker so you could be done with it.

You really didn't feel like it was - you.

Just a job. Something to pay the bills. Like waitressing or cleaning. But those jobs didn't pay enough for you to look after your younger brother and keep him in school so he wouldn't turn out like you.

That's what you were thinking about when it happened. Him. What fancy college he would end up at. What city he'd leave to. What life would look like once he got one of those nice banking jobs and whisked you out of here.

Then a police siren rang and you were right back to that dingy street corner instead of a daydream.

You took of your stilettos and carried them in your hand, putting one foot in front of the other as you took off into a dark alley. Running was second nature. Police cars would come by once a month and scare girls off. They'd laugh as you scattered off like mice wearing fuck me pumps and tight little dresses. It was funny. A little game they liked to play between home invasions.

You hid behind a trash can for five minutes. Surely they had their laugh and would be long gone by now, actually getting back to work or finding some other poor gals to mess with. You slid your heels back on and looked left and right for any sign or whisper of another person. All clear.

You tiptoed out of the alley, trying as hard as you could to not make a sound. As you peered your head around the corner - a shadow.

You gasped then covered your mouth.

A laugh, twisted and delighted, rang out from the dead of night.

You stumbled backwards, eyes darting frantically all around you desperate to find the source of that terrible sound.

"Who - who's there?"

You stuttered out, voice thick with fear.

Another laugh even more sinister than the first pierced through the air.

You reached into your purse, a raggedy old thing falling apart at the seams, and pulled out a switchblade. You had only used it a handful of times before. Some customers thought they could get by without paying, others tried to be rougher than what you had outlined.

Just the sight of it was enough to spook them into placing a couple hundred dollars into your hand and taking off without question.

You yielded it in your hand, still shaking.

"Stay back! I have a knife!"

A hand came down on your arm in a flash, pinning it behind your back. You lifted the other, slashing the knife in every direction as you struggled to break free. You felt a body press into your back as two feet stepped just outside of your own, caging you in between your assailant's legs.

Your heart was pounding out of your chest. Your breath was fast, heavy, uneven.

Whoever or whatever this was, they were strong. Very strong.

No matter how much you squirmed, how hard you kicked, the body behind you remained steady. Feet firmly planted at your sides, hand gripping your wrist unyieldingly, your attacker was trained.

"Let me go!"

You screamed, hoping you'd scare him or maybe someone would hear you. But it was hopeless. There'd be nobody on this corner, not at this time of night anyways. And if there were, it wouldn't be the kind of person who'd intervene to save you.

In your final attempt to escape, you mustered all your strength to turn around and strike your attacker in the face.

You had him. Your aim was precise and you were strong enough, quick enough. Just one more inch and -

Another hand clasped where your hand held the knife, pulling you to face him completely.

You weren't sure what exactly you expected, but it was something disgusting, ugly, only a truly horrible creature could've had such a laugh.

You were stunned looking at the man in front of you. Under a black "Police" beanie laid delicate features placed perfectly on sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw. Two violet eyes shooting a supernatural, but beautiful light into the pitch black alley.

You studied him longer, face fixed on the sick smile imprinted on his mouth. The way he licked his bottom lip at the sight of you trembling.

The knife was still between you both, silver steel glistening with starlight. His hands tightened around yours, fingers pressing deep into your skin.

You let out a yelp as he dragged your hand to his mouth, darting out a long tongue to lick the blade before him, eyes not parting from yours for a second.

"I wouldn't try that, honey."

He yanked your other hand in between his thighs, clawing between your fingers to force your hand open. You gasped as he dragged your hand along his cock pressed hard against his pants. Even through clothes, you could feel he was big. Very big.

"The more you struggle, the harder I get."

He threw the knife on the ground. The clattering of your last line of defense filled you with a new wave of fear. But something worse than fear - familiarity.

That face. That voice. You... you knew him.

Your eyes travelled to across his face, desperately trying to fit the puzzle pieces together.

"Starting to remember me, crybaby?"

Crybaby.

That's what he called you.

Aerion.

Ever since that first day of kindergarten when he pulled your pigtails up until reaching his hand under your skirt freshman year.

That was the one good thing about getting kicked out.

You didn't have to see him again.

You fought your hardest to stop it, to swallow the burning sensation building up inside of you. But Aerion had always had this effect on you, this cruel control you couldn't understand.

As tears welled in your eyes, you turned your head away so he wouldn't see. You'd heard him before. It would only make him want this more.

"Awwww, crybaby."

He dragged his pointed tongue along your jaw, catching the falling tear and licking up back to your cheek.

"Mmmm. Nice to know I still make you wet after all these years."

In one swift movement, he turned you over and twisted your hands behind your back. He bent you over the trash can, hips flush onto yours, his bulge pressing through the laughably sheer fabric of your mini dress. Your legs stumbled further apart, involuntarily making room for him.

A jingling sound ran from behind you and before you realized what was happening the unforgiving metal of handcuffs was clamped shut around your wrists.

You were breathless, unable to speak. He had moved so quickly, with such tact - it was as if he'd rehearsed it for months.

His body moved closer, hovering over your laid out back when he ran two fingers up your dress and along your folds. You couldn't help it. You weren't sure if it was the adrenaline, the excitement of it all - maybe some sick part of you actually enjoyed this, enjoyed being hunted. You weren't sure if it was his unavoidable handsomeness or his brute strength.

But you were wet. Dripping down your thighs. And now he knew.

"In more ways than one."

He whispered, voice hoarse and intoxicating. He grabbed your face with one hand, turning you to face him as he leaned down. Eyes glued to yours, he brought the two fingers to his mouth sucking your juices off their length, eyes rolling back ever so slightly.

"So sweet. Sweeter than I imagined you'd be."

He planted a sickeningly tender kiss to your forehead before moving behind you again. He pushed your head down into the rails of the trashcan before tearing the sheer fabric of your dress from the neckline down to the end of your skirt.

You let out a cry as he shifted the rest of the fabric off revealing your naked body.

"Help! Somebody help me!"

You shouted at the top of your lungs, tears pouring down your face. This man humiliated you in every way possible in your childhood. And your life since him had been equally humiliating, if not more. And now, here you were. Head pressed against the edge of a trash can, naked and trembling in handcuffs, as your childhood bully stood behind with the imposing length of his clothed cock rubbing against your bare ass.

"Nobody's here, sweetheart. Don't you think I'm smarter than that?"

The words drifted into your neck as he nuzzled his chin into your collarbones.

"When I heard you were selling this - "

He slapped your pussy, the impact against your wetness making a pathetic squelch.

"Pretty little pussy on the street I just - well, I couldn't help myself."

He slapped again, harder this time. He then dragged his wet lips up to your ear, stopping to bite your earlobe.

"I had been saving you for myself all these years. You know, I was supposed to be your first."

His long fingers slowly slid back between your slick folds, teasing your clit with faint circles.

"Your biggest tormentor"

He picked up his speed and laughed as you kicked your legs, overwhelmed with sensation. You'd never admit it, but it felt good. Very good. The sick asshole knew what he was doing.

"Giving you the ultimate gift."

You bit down on your lip as his fingers pressed harder into your clit, trying to muffle out the pitiful mewls and whimpers escaping your lips.

"I had waited for so many years. Needed you to hate me. Really fucking hate me. So when you finally begged me to fuck you, begged me to ruin you, it would be that much sweeter"

He practically moaned the words as he sank his index finger into your pulsing hole, his thumb continuing to ruthlessly rub your clit.

You arched your back into his touch, unable to control the wave of pleasure building up in your stomach.

"When I heard my sweet little girl had become a trashy prostitute all these years later, you can imagine. I was very... angry"

He thrust his middle finger into you with animal force. You reared your head back as his free hand pulled your hair.

"Took me a while to find you. You went quite far, crybaby, didn't know you had it in you."

Tears were rolling down your face as hopeless moans fled from your mouth. His fingers were fucking you relentlessly as his cock twitched on your ass, throbbing harder after every little movement you made. Every time your walls clamped around his digits, you could feel him smile as he pressed his lips to the skin on your neck.

"But eventually I got my hands on your file. Saw those soliciting charges. Found you out here."

You tried everything in your power to fight it. You tried moving away, thinking about other things, breaking free from his grasp, but it was no use. Aerion had you right where he wanted you. The pleasure was so intense now you could envision it - envision yourself screaming his name against your will as his fingers brought you to release.

But just as you began to reach your final peak, he stopped.

He pulled his fingers out of you and laughed as you whimpered pathetically at the feeling of emptiness. At the loss of being denied an orgasm you hadn't even wanted in the first place.

He gripped your face with his hands, turning you to face him again. You looked a mess, naked, hair tangled, eyes coated in a desire-fueled haze. But still, he licked his lips with want, with need.

This was exactly how he wanted you.

"Not yet, baby. Remember? I want you to beg"

He started rubbing again, slower this time. Painfully slower. Your legs twitched in frustration at his cruel teasing.

"You've been such a bad girl without me"

His hand came down on your ass with a sharp crack as the other picked up its pace, tracing circles around your clit. You let out a muffled moan, trying your best to quiet yourself.

Another sharp crack landed on your ass cheek.

"No, no. That's not what I said I wanted, is it baby?"

He slapped your ass again as he slid his fingers back inside you, your body convulsing at the overwhelm of sensation.

"Answer me!"

He spat, voice crossing from teasing to unforgiving. You searched his purple eyes for any sign of what he wanted. Any sign of what you could do to make him stop. There was nothing.

You shook your head in defeat.

"Good. That's a good start. What do I want then, honey?"

You tried to find something to say, but it was impossible to concentrate with the way his fingers pushed into you. The way his thumb commanded your throbbing clit. The way wetness was pouring like a waterfall down your legs to the point you could feel it pool around your ankles now.

Then just like that, he pulled his fingers out again.

The groan you let out could only be described as desperately animalistic. He was breaking you in. Training you. Ruining you. Forcing you to be a naked, whimpering mess in the alley and worse. Forcing you to enjoy it. To beg for it.

He carried on for what felt like hours. Fingering you senseless. Circling your clit with relentless precision. He stuck his fingers in your mouth, leaving you to drool all over him and yourself. He pulled your hair each time you arched your back, mocking your body's willingness to let him take you. He landed occasional slaps to your ass and pussy, blending the unbearable pleasure with pain.

And every time you were about to orgasm, he'd stop.

He'd laugh as you cried, as your legs writhed with need and your hips bucked up against him, asking him to fuck you, to finish you off.

But it wasn't enough. He needed to hear you. And at this point, you needed release so badly, you cried. Not from pain, not from fear, but because you needed him to fuck you so badly you couldn't think about anything else anymore.

He eyed you as he wiped away some of the wetness running down your thighs.

"Do you feel that, baby? You're fucking soaked for me. You're fucking nasty. A nasty, slobbering mess for me. All you have to do now is admit it."

You opened your legs wider with anticipation as you forced the words out of your mouth.

"I - I - I want you."

Your voice was shaking. It almost sounded like a cry rather than a statement.

"You - you - you want me to what, honey?"

Aerion's mocking voice poured like a sweet poison into your ears.

"I want you to - to fuck me."

Your body betrayed you. You betrayed yourself. But he'd just spent the last few hours completely ruining you, playing your body like an instrument to where you now were just a toy. A toy who'd let him play with you. Who'd beg him for it.

"There she is. There's my girl."

Aerion smiled as he undid his pants. Your mouth watered as he unzipped his pants and let out a pained moan as he revealed his cock. It was quite long, but more than anything it was thick. Thick and pale, coated with veins and an angry red tip that filled you with a combination of desire and fear.

He disappeared behind you and you felt his hand trace your spine as he aligned his tip with your entrance.

"You want this cock?"

He teasingly tapped the end of his cock onto your entrance, your hips desperately moving backwards to try to close on his length. But he always remained just out of reach.

"Y-yes. I want your cock."

He moved his tip from your hole to your clit, tapping and rubbing it as you thrashed around squealing.

"You're gonna have to beg better than that, sweetheart."

You cried out as he removed his cock again.

"Please, Aerion. Please. I want - I need you to fuck me. I need your cock. Please."

The tears came down harder in a mix of shame and need. You couldn't believe the words that came out of your mouth, but you couldn't have said anything else.

"That's better."

Aerion whispered as he kicked your ankles apart with his boot, spreading you wide as he sunk his cock into your clingy hole. Your walls clamped around him immediately as you screamed his name.

But then stillness. He refused to move.

"Aerion, please move."

"Who's pussy is this?"

Aerion's voice came out controlled.

"Yours." A muffled cry escaped as you tried to sink your hips onto his cock, but his hands held you firmly in place.

"What do you want me to do to you, my pretty girl?"

Your mind was completely blank right now. His cock was inside you, yes, but it wasn't enough. Another tease. Another thing reminding you of how much you needed him to fuck you.

"Anything, e-everything."

And with that, he smashed into you, hips bucking onto your ass as he thrust deeper and deeper with a brutal tempo. The lewd squelches of your wet pussy on his throbbing cock sent him into a frenzy.

"You hear that? You're fucking nasty, sweetheart."

Your jaw dropped, drool spilling everywhere, and your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he fucked you harder and harder. He pulled your head back by your hair so he could see your face.

"Look at you, baby. So cockdrunk off me you can't even say anything anymore? Can't even form thoughts?"

You nodded your head thoughtlessly and he let out a cruel laugh. He pulled on your jaw, opening your mouth further before titling your head back and spitting into it.

"You hold that there for me, you dirty slut. You hold it for me until I tell you to swallow."

You nodded, eyes glued to his as he continued rocking his hips into you. You kept your mouth open, holding his sticky spit on your tongue as he leaned over and began rubbing your puffy clit with his thumb again. You rolled your hips back onto him, desperately needing more.

"That's it. You're mine. You're my dirty little plaything. See how good you are for me? See how well I treat you when you obey?"

You nodded again as he dug his fingers into your hips.

"Swallow."

You swallowed the thick layer of spit he left in your mouth moments ago.

"That's my good girl. That's my pretty girl."

He slapped your cheek, sending you into a sickening fit of pain and bliss.

"Where do you want me to come honey, huh? Where do you want me to spill on you?"

The sweetness of his voice sent chills up your spine.

You couldn't respond for a minute, mewling and whimpering pathetically as he split you open with his cock.

"An - anywhere. On me. Inside me."

He thrashed in you with newfound fervor, bringing you dangerously close to your release as you bounced up and down on his cock. His hands trailed up your body, grabbing your breasts, thumbs circling around your nipples. His breath hitched as he spoke

" I -hah - I'm gonna come inside you. Fill you up with every drop of me till you love me. Till you're nothing but a stupid mess of spit and cum and the only word you're able to say is my name."

"Aerion, Aerion, Aerion, Aerion"

You chanted hopelessly, shouting his name like a prayer as he pushed into you over and over.

Your orgasm came violently, like a wave knocking everything out of you. As your walls clamped forcefully around his cock still twitching inside you, Aerion came, cock filling you stupid with his cum.

He rested his head on your back, hands gently stroking the sides of your legs, as both of you caught your breath. You were still seeing stars, unable to shake off the last hours of sick, twisted, mindless pleasure. You were a pool of spit, of cum - both yours and Aerion's.

He took off his police jacket and placed it on your shoulders, wrapping you in an embrace as you trembled. You turned to face him, his pale face covered in sweat, but his eyes. They worried you. Perhaps more now than before.

"I was sent to arrest you. Asked to transfer to vice so I could clean up the mess that tight pussy's been makin' all over town."

He moved his hands to your face and planted a whisper of a kiss onto your nose.

"Figured I'd give you a choice. Since we go back and all."

He almost sounded kind.

"I can arrest you and take you to the police station for being a whore for any pathetic schmuck on the street -"

He let out a laugh. That same wicked, vile sound that had filled you with fear earlier.

"Or I can take you to my place and you can be my whore. Only mine. "

His lips brushed gently on your cheek as he kissed away your remaining tears.

"What do you say, crybaby?"

AUTHOR'S NOTE: please read the warnings/don't be upset if you read and saw things you didn't like. def a very dark aerion take but just thought of it tonight seeing that gif of him in the beanie (eek). Will be continuing the other Aerion series, next part out soon. As always, hope you enjoy and thanks for all the love, kisses xxx

[louloucake]

things you do for love ⌖⁺‧ ₊

stalker!ex-boyfriend!aerion x reader

-18+, dark!modern!aerion, stalker!ex-boyfriend!aerion, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, domestic violence, physical abuse, murder, blood and gore, psychological horror, unhealthy relationships, emotional manipulation, dead dove: do not eat!!! ᥫ᭡

he always seemed to be around.

not in a way you could easily prove, not in a way you could point to without sounding ridiculous, but enough that you started recognizing him in passing. at the corner store. near the bus stop where you waited with your headphones in and your keys looped around your fingers.

the first time you noticed aerion was at the corner store near your father's house. you'd been sent out for milk and bread, and he was leaning against the brick exterior, cigarette dangling from his lips, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

his eyes followed you as you approached.

"need help with that?" he'd asked, his voice gravelly as he gestured toward the paper bag threatening to tear in your arms.

"no, i've got it," you'd replied, trying to sound casual even as your heart hammered against your ribs.

he'd smirked, taking a long drag from his cigarette before exhaling a cloud of smoke that seemed to frame his face. "suit yourself. just trying to be neighborly."

after that, you started seeing him everywhere. at first, you thought it was coincidence, but then you began to notice the pattern, the way he always seemed to know where you'd be, the way his eyes would find yours across a crowded room.

your father noticed too. "that boy's always hanging around," he'd grumbled one evening over dinner. "don't like the look of him. stay away from him, you hear?"

but you couldn't stay away. there was something magnetic about aerion, something that made your pulse quicken and your palms sweat. he was mean sometimes, his words cutting and sharp, but then he'd do something unexpectedly sweet-

the requests started small. "let me walk you home," he'd say, and you'd find yourself agreeing despite your father's warnings. then came the invitations to hang out, to grab a bite, to see a movie. each time, you'd hesitate, remembering your father's disapproval, but each time, you'd find yourself saying yes.

"come on, just one date," he'd plead, his blue eyes pleading in a way that made it hard to refuse. "i won't bite. unless you want me to."

you'd laugh at that, even as a shiver ran down your spine. there was something dangerous about aerion, something that should have sent you running in the opposite direction, but instead, it only made him more intriguing.

the breaking point came on a rainy tuesday evening.

you'd just finished your shift at the diner, and as you stepped outside, you found him leaning against the building, sheltered by the awning.

"aerion? what are you doing here? you're going to catch your death."

he shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. "waiting for you. figured you might need a ride."

your heart did that little flip it always did when he did something unexpectedly thoughtful. "you've been waiting long?"

"an hour or so," he admitted, stepping closer and opening an umbrella to shelter you both.

you looked up at him, at the intensity in his gaze, and you knew you couldn't keep saying no. "okay," you whispered, the word barely audible over the sound of the rain. "one date. just one-”

the grin that spread across his face was brilliant, transforming his usually serious expression into something boyish and charming. "deal," he said, his voice low and triumphant.

that first date was nothing like you'd expected. he took you to a small place on the other side of town, he held doors open for you, pulled out your chair, and listened attentively as you talked about your classes and your dreams. he was still rough around the edges, still aerion, but there was a gentleness to him that you hadn't seen before.

over the next few weeks, you'd meet after your shifts, steal kisses in dark corners, and talk on the phone until the morning rays streamed through your window curtains. aerion was attentive and caring, always seeming to know what you needed before you did.

he made you feel like you were the only person in the world. you saw the kindness beneath the rough exterior, the vulnerability behind the tough guy act.

sure, he irritated you, but he made you laugh when you were trying not to.

he was the best boyfriend you had ever had….he was the only boyfriend you had ever had up until that point….but not because he was easy, because he wasn’t. not because he was sweet, it was because he paid attention. because he showed up. because when he looked at you, there was no doubt in it, no games, no half-measures. he loves you more than he had loved anything in his whole life and it showed.

just that dangerous, unwavering kind of devotion that made your whole life feel somehow, impossibly, safer….

but as they always do…good things come to an end, it happened on a thursday night, after work, you had called aerion twice. then a third time. then you stopped because the ringing started to make you feel stupid.

you caught up to him three days later. three days of unanswered calls. three days of wondering if he was hurt, if something had happened, if he was lying dead in a ditch somewhere.

you found him in the parking lot behind the convenience store just before sunset, when the light had gone thin and gray and the pavement still held the heat of the day. there was a dark bruise starting along the side of his jaw, fresh enough that it had not been there the last time you saw him. his hair looked messier than usual, his mouth set in that hard line he got when he was trying not to show anything at all. he glanced up when he noticed you coming, and for half a second his face changed, almost like he had expected this and still didn’t want it.

“aerion,” you said, stopping in front of him. your voice came out sharper than you meant it to. “you could’ve answered one text.”

aerion gave a short, tired exhale through his nose and looked away instead of answering right away, like he was buying himself a second. “i wasn’t really looking at my phone.”

you stared at him, disbelief flashing hot and immediate. “you disappeared for three days.”

“it wasn’t three days.”

“pretty sure it was.”

a muscle moved in his jaw. he looked past you toward the lot, at the faded white lines and the half-empty row of parked cars, like anything out there would be easier to deal with than your face. “i’m not doing this in a parking lot.”

he looked like he wanted to say something rude, something easy and defensive, but when he spoke, his voice came out quieter than before. “i knew you were going to be mad.”

“mad?” your throat tightened before you could stop it. the next words came out smaller, stripped of some of the heat you’d been carrying the whole drive over. “i thought something happened to you.”

“i thought maybe you were hurt,” you admitted, and now your voice was rougher, less angry than before. “i called and called and you just-” you stopped, swallowing hard. “you just vanished. that’s not what boyfriends are supposed to do just by the way!”

he rubbed a hand down his face, dragging it slowly over his mouth and jaw like he was trying to wipe away exhaustion that sat too deep to be physical. “i had stuff to handle.”

“then tell me.”

“i can’t.”

the answer was so immediate it made you stare. “why not?”

he gave a small, humorless shrug without really looking at you. “because i just can’t.”

“you tell me what you can tell me, and half the time that’s nothing, and then you look annoyed when i’m upset about it.”

he let out a low breath, his frustration finally showing in the tight set of his shoulders and the sharp flick of his eyes toward you. “jesus fuckin’ christ.”

you pointed at the space between the two of you, your hand shaking slightly with how hard you were trying not to cry. “this is exactly what i’m talking about.”

his expression had gone hard again, but there was something strained underneath it now, something worn thin. “what do you want from me?”

you looked at him for a second, stunned by how genuinely confused he sounded.

“i want you to talk to me.”

“i am talking to you.”

“no, you’re not.”

he stared at you like he wanted to argue, like he wanted to tell you you were being unfair, but instead he just dragged a hand over the back of his neck and looked away again. “then what the hell is this?”

you didn’t answer right away. the noise of the parking lot seemed to swell around you, the hiss of a passing car, the buzz of a broken light over the store entrance, the dull rush of blood in your ears.

your chest felt tight. your mouth went dry.

“i can’t do this,” you said.

aerion went still.

then, very carefully, he asked, “what does that mean?”

for a second, you wished he would interrupt you. tell you to stop being dramatic. tell you to calm down. tell you this didn’t have to be this big. tell you literally anything that would keep you from saying the thing you already knew was waiting in your throat.

he stayed quiet.

“i don’t think this is working.”

for one second neither of you reacted, and in that pause you could feel your own heart thudding hard enough to hurt. aerion just stared at you. “you want to break up?”

your eyes burned immediately. you hated that they did. you hated the way your body betrayed you at the worst possible moment.

“i don’t know,” you said, but even to your own ears it sounded weak.

his expression changed, just slightly. “sounds like you do.”

aerion was quiet for a long time after that. long enough that you started to think he might argue, instead he only nodded once.

“alright,” he said. the word was so quiet you almost missed it. he shoved his hands into his pockets like he needed something to do with them. “if this is what you need,” he said, and now his voice was lower, rougher, “then okay. i'll give you time.”

you looked at him, your vision blurred at the edges.

he just stood there.

then you turned away.

your feet felt strange, heavy and unreal, like they belonged to someone else. you kept waiting for him to call your name. to reach for you. to say he was sorry. to say anything at all.

he didn’t.

the first few months after the breakup were miserable. the truth was that sometimes you'd leave work late at night and get the strange feeling that someone was nearby. the uneasy certainty that if something happened, if you broke down on the side of the road or got stranded somewhere at midnight, aerion would somehow know.

you hated that feeling, you hated that part of you found comfort in it.

then you met calvin.

at first, he seemed normal, after aerion, normal felt refreshing. cal was charming. easygoing. he didn't disappear for days at a time. he answered texts. he remembered birthdays….people said he was good for you and you tried very hard to believe them.

but things again, are never perfect,

he'd mock your music, he'd roll his eyes when you talked too much, every disagreement somehow became your fault, you'd leave conversations feeling guilty and confused without understanding why.

a month passed and his temper got worse and somewhere out there, aerion watched it happen.

he saw the way your smile had changed, saw the way you flinched when calvin raised his voice in public, saw the way you apologized constantly now. for everything.

the first time aerion witnessed calvin grabbing your wrist hard enough to leave marks, he nearly got out of his car. the only thing that stopped him was you, you had laughed it off afterward and smiled, pretended everything was fine.

the memory haunted him for weeks. by then he hated your new boyfriend, not the irrational jealousy he'd expected but hate, true vile hate.

because every time he saw the man, he saw someone taking pieces from you, little by little, until the bright, stubborn girl he'd fallen in love with seemed tired all the time, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

until the night everything finally broke.

rain hammered against the windows, the storm had rolled in around sunset and never let up, turning the neighborhood into a blur of water and flashing headlights.

cal came home drunk enough that you knew it the second you heard the front door open.

it was in the uneven drag of his footsteps across the entryway, in the pause that came before he shut the door too hard behind him, in the way he stood there for a second like he had to remember what room he was in.

you looked up from where you were sitting with your knees tucked under you, your phone resting in your hand, half-forgotten.

“where were you?” he asked.

you stared at him. “what?”

cal took a few more steps into the room, one hand braced against the back of the chair as if he needed it to stay upright. his eyes were glassy and unfocused, but the look on his face was sharp enough to make up for it.

“where were you today?” he repeated.

“at work,” you said carefully. “cal, what is this?”

he let out a short, humorless laugh and shook his head, like your answer had offended him. “try again.”

you set your phone down slowly, suddenly very aware of how quiet the room had become. “what are you talking about?”

he reached into his pocket, fumbled with his keys, and tossed them onto the kitchen counter with a loud metallic clatter. the sound made you flinch despite yourself.

“him,” he said.

the word hit you like a drop in body temperature.

you already knew who he meant. for a second, you just looked at him. you could feel your pulse in your throat. “cal-”

“you still talking to him?”

“no.”

his jaw tightened. “you expect me to believe that?”

“i haven’t spoken to him in months.”

“then why is he always around?”

you stared at him in disbelief. “i don’t know.” and that was the truth. you didn’t know why.

he dragged a hand over his mouth and looked at you like you had personally done this to him. “you think i’m a joke.”

“no,” you said immediately, you tried to keep your voice steady. “cal, you’re drunk.”

that made him stop moving for half a second, like the words had landed somewhere they weren’t supposed to. then his hand slammed against the counter the sound cracked through the room.

you jerked back before you could stop yourself, your heart thudding hard enough to hurt. cal stared at you, chest rising and falling, his breathing heavier now.

then he took a step toward you.

you stood up without thinking, putting the couch between you for a second, though it didn’t make you feel any safer. “cal, stop.”

“answer me.” the words came louder this time, bouncing off the walls with a force. rain tapped against the windows, soft and constant at first, then harder as the storm outside picked up. the sound made the house feel sealed in, cut off from everything else.

“nothing is going on,” you said, and hated how thin your own voice sounded.

he stared at you, then his expression changed, it was quick so quick you almost missed it.

his hand came up before you had time to move and the slap rang through the room.

your head turned with the force of it. your vision flashed white for a second. you stumbled back into the edge of the couch, your hand flying to your face as heat burned across your cheek.

cal froze, he looked just as shocked for half a second, as if even he hadn’t expected it to go that far. “don’t look at me like that,” he said, his voice low and ugly now.

you stared at him, breathing hard, your fingers pressed to your face. “don’t. cal, don’t come near me.”

he took another step, you backed away immediately, panic flooding so fast you could hardly think over it. “no. stop.”

he was still moving.

so you turned and ran.

you took the stairs two at a time, your feet slipping slightly on the runner as your heart slammed against your ribs. behind you, you heard him follow, the heavy, uneven sound of his footsteps thudding up after you.

you reached for your bedroom door and slamming the it shut behind you. your hands fumbled at the lock, shaking so badly you nearly missed it. maybe he’d stop. maybe he’d stay downstairs and cool off and this could become some horrible thing you never talked about again.

then you heard him on the other side. a scrape of something heavy dragging across the floor.

furniture.

“no,” you whispered, stepping back from the door. “no, cal, stop.”

“i think you need some time in here to think about how your actions have consequences!” he shouted from the other side.

you rushed forward and grabbed the handle, yanking hard, but it wouldn’t budge. the weight on the other side held it shut. something had been pushed up against the door. the realization hit you hard enough to make your knees go weak.

“cal!”

your voice cracked on his name.

you slammed the palm of your hand against the wood. you could hear your own pulse. you could hear the blood rushing in your ears. the silence on the other side of the door was unbearable, because it meant he was still there. still deciding. still close enough to scare you even when he wasn’t speaking.

then, from downstairs, came a crash.

you froze.

another one followed almost immediately, louder this time, something heavy hitting the floor hard enough to make the house shudder. voices rose below you, you couldn’t make out the words at first- just shouting, the strain of anger and force. something broke, or was thrown, and the sound sent a sharp jolt through your chest.

you backed away from the door without meaning to, both hands lifting to cover your mouth.

another bang rattled through the house.

then, suddenly-

silence.

you stood in the middle of the room, frozen, every muscle in your body locked tight as you listened for movement below. for breathing. for footsteps. for anything.

nothing.

then came the sound of footsteps on the stairs and stopped outside your door.

for one heartbeat, there was nothing but the rain and the sound of your own breath catching in your throat.

the silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until it was broken by the scrape of furniture being dragged away from your door. you flinched back, pressing yourself against the far wall of your bedroom, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

the door swung open.

and there he was.

aerion.

he stood at the doorway, a silhouette against the dim light of the hallway, but the dim light couldn't hide the truth. it was slick and dark and wet, painted across his chest, splattered on his forearms, matting his hair to his forehead. it dripped from a cut above his eyebrow.

a sob, raw and ragged, tore from your throat. it was relief, you crossed the room to him, not thinking, just moving. you crashed into him, your arms wrapping around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder.

"oh my god," you sobbed, you pulled back just enough to press frantic, desperate kisses all over his face- his cold cheek, his nose, his jaw, anywhere you could reach. "aerion, aerion, what are you doing here? cal-he's-he's- we have to go, we have to go now!" you grabbed his arm, trying to pull him, to make him understand the urgency. "he'll come back, he'll hurt you, he'll-"

aerion just stood there, letting you panic against him. his hands came up to rest on your back, a steady, grounding weight. "hey," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your entire body. "hey. it's okay."

you shook your head, tears blurring your vision. "no, it's not okay, you don't understand-"

and then you really looked at him. you looked at your hands, still gripping his arms, and saw the dark, viscous liquid coating your own skin. you looked at his shirt, not just wet with rain, but soaked through with something else. you looked at the dark spatters on the wall behind him, trailing down the hallway from the stairs.

a choked sound escaped you, a mix of a gasp and a whimper. you stumbled back, your hands flying to your mouth as if you could physically hold back the scream building in your chest. you stared at him, at the man you had just been kissing, the man you had just run to for safety. the blood was everywhere. on him. around him.

your relief curdled instantly into a cold, sharp terror. not of cal anymore, but of the man standing in front of you. the man who had come to you covered in blood.

aerion saw the shift in your eyes. he saw the fear replace the relief, and his own expression softened, a flicker of something desperate and pained crossing his face. he took a half-step toward you, his hands held up in a gesture of surrender.

"no, no," he said quickly, his voice urgent, trying to catch you before you completely unraveled. "don't worry, it's not mine, baby."

but it didn't help. it only made it worse. it wasn't his. which meant it was someone else's. it meant the silence downstairs wasn't just cal passed out. it meant the crash you heard wasn't just a lamp falling over.

"no," you breathed, the word a puff of air. you scrambled backward, your feet tangling in the rug until you hit the wall with a soft thud. you pressed yourself flat against it, as if you could disappear into the plaster. "don't. don't come near me."

his hands, which had been raised in placation, slowly dropped. the desperate look on his face hardened into something else- a grim determination. he took another step, and you flinched.

"stop! just stop right there!" you shouted, your voice trembling but high with panic. "aerion, what did you do? oh god, did you…did you kill him?"

the question hung in the air, heavy and obscene. he didn't answer it, not directly. instead, he kept moving, a slow, deliberate advance that was more terrifying than a rush.

"i was watching," he started, his voice low and intense, his eyes locked on yours. "i saw how drunk he was."

"aerion, please," you whispered, shaking your head, tears streaming down your face. you slid along the wall, trying to put more distance between you, but there was nowhere to go.

"i heard him yelling," he continued, ignoring your plea, his voice growing thicker with a dark, possessive rage. "i heard him call you a liar….he hit you.” he took another step, and the space between you vanished. "what was i supposed to do?”

"get away from me!" you cried, shoving at his chest. your hands met the solid, wet fabric of his shirt, and the tacky feel of cal’s blood on your skin made you sob.

he didn't budge. he caught your wrists in his grip, his hold firm but not painful. it was the kind of hold that said i am not letting go. "it was a mistake," he said, his voice dropping to a raw, ragged whisper. his face was so close you could see the fleck of blood on his eyelash. "letting you go. it was the biggest mistake of my fucking life. thinking you'd be safer…”

"letting this asshole touch you- he was going to hurt you," he breathed, his thumbs stroking the frantic pulse in your wrists. "he was going to hurt you much worse than a slap. i saw it in his eyes. but its okay now, he’ll never hurt you again.”

you were trapped. pinned between the wall and his body, his words wrapping around you like a shroud. he had saved you, but in doing so, he had become a monster of his own making.

survival instinct, raw and primal, surged through the terror. you shoved against him with every ounce of strength you had. he was momentarily off-balance, his focus on his confession, and the sudden force made him stumble back a single step.

you wrenched your wrists from his loosened grip and ducked under his arm, scrambling away from him and the suffocating presence of the wall. you didn't look back. you fled, slamming the bedroom door shut behind you. the solid wood of the door was a pathetic barrier, but it was something.

he called out your name, his voice muffled by the door, but still you could hear the heat of his anger. you were taking the stairs two at a time, slipping and careening down the wooden steps. you didn't want to see. you didn't want to know. you just wanted out.

you hit the bottom landing and your eyes were forced to take in the scene. the living room wasn't just a mess. it was a slaughterhouse.

cal was on the floor, halfway between the overturned coffee table and the front door. he wasn't just bleeding. he was… broken. the shape of him was wrong, contorted at an impossible angle. his face was a ruin you couldn't process. a dark, thick pool of blood was spreading out from beneath him, seeping into the fibers of the rug, creeping toward the baseboards like a living thing. it was splattered on the walls in violent, arterial arcs, a grotesque abstract painting against the beige paint. a lamp lay shattered nearby, its bulb blinking weakly, a dying star in a sea of red.

the sound that came out of you was a pure, animalistic shriek of horror.

"FUCK! i-it’s okay now! stop- fuckin’ running away!" aerion's voice was behind you now, at the top of the stairs. he was coming.

you didn't think. you ran, your shoe skidding in the slick blood on the floor but you made it to the door, the deadbolt groaning in protest, and stumbled out into the rain-swept night. the cold air hit your face like a slap, but it was nothing compared to the ice in your veins.

he yelled your name again from the doorway, his voice chasing you into the darkness.

you didn't stop. you didn't look back. you ran from the house, from the blood, from the body, from the monster you had once loved. you ran across the wet lawn, your shoes sinking into the mud, until you hit the edge of the property and plunged into the open field beyond. the tall, wet grass whipped at your legs, soaking your tank top and little shorts. you kept running, your lungs burning, your heart a frantic, painful drum against your ribs. you ran until the lights of the house were just a distant, hazy glow, until the only sounds were the rain, the howl of the wind, and your own choked, sobbing breaths.

you could escape. you could make it to the road. you could-

an arm like a steel band snaked around your waist, lifting you off your feet. the momentum sent you both crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs and wet grass. the impact knocked the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping like a fish on land. before you could draw breath to scream, a large, calloused hand clamped over your mouth.

"don't. make. a. fucking. sound." he growled, his voice a low, furious rumble right against your ear. his body was a heavy weight on top of yours, pinning you effortlessly. you thrashed wildly, your hands clawing at the arm around your waist, your legs kicking, but it was useless. he was immovable.

“shhhh sh sh sh.” his grip on your mouth tightened, a clear warning. you could feel the heat of his anger radiating off him in waves, a stark contrast to the cold rain soaking you both.

"where did you think you were going? hmmm?" he demanded, his voice laced with a dark, incredulous fury. "did you really think you could just run away? from me?" he shifted, pressing his weight down more firmly, stilling your struggles. "i just fixed your mess. i just saved your life. and this is how you thank me?”

you were sobbing against his palm, hot, useless tears mixing with the cold rain on your face. you couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

"i told you," he hissed, his lips brushing against your temple. the gesture was almost tender, a horrifying contrast to his words and his strength. "i told you i'm not losing you again. now you're going to stop. you're going to calm down. and you're going to listen to me.”

“we're going home now..."

[voidreynolds]

lovesick fools | monkey d. luffy

summary: it was cute, at first, the way the young straw hat wearing captain clung to your every word and watched you like you had strung together the very sea that he loved so much. it became extremely annoying, however, when you realized you had fallen for him, too— even harder.

or: luffy discovers something he loves more than food.

warnings: reader is a chronic flirt, rivaling even sanji. slight tension, banter, luffy is intoxicated by reader, reader is manipulative– not in a toxic, icky way but in a way that drives luffy (and poor sanji) insane. *clears throat* walk him like a dog, sis, walk him like a dog…..

the sun was already up, as you made your way across the deck of the merry. zoro was still in his sentry soldier stance, guarding the ship from whatever he had envisioned the biggest threat to be. nami was scolding usopp about using her pen to scribble down ideas, and sanji, judging by the sweet scent wafting through the air, was cooking lunch.

“looking good, zoro. if you hadn’t acknowledged my presence, i really would have thought we got a new statue to decorate the ship.”

zoro eyed you, the slightest hint of amusement on his face, “i see you’ve finally woken up. nice of you to join us today, you almost missed the part of the day when the sun isn’t the highest point.”

“perfect timing to sunbathe…”

“i beg you not to.”

“can’t stand the sight?”

“i can’t stand the way the other two act around you…”

at this you smiled to yourself and crossed your arms, “they’re cute. it’s rather amusing…”

“to you.”

“you could ease off our poor captain… sanji at least can take it.”

“no he can’t!” you snorted, “the first time i flirted back at him, he collapsed.”

this made zoro smile, looking more amused than you had ever seen him, “i know. but it never gets old…”

you grinned at him, shaking your head slightly. you had formed some kind of odd friendship with zoro. you had bonded over the stupidity of most people and barely attainable aspirations. you nudged him once as you brushed past him and he acknowledged you with a non irritated glance.

“he was looking for you, by the way.”

“sanji?”

“probably. but no…”

you smiled to yourself, despite the attempt you had really made not to get attached, “where is he?”

“his usual spot…”

you started up the curved horns of the ram’s head, but you didn’t make it far before there was an enthusiastic inhale and a head appeared over the edge. “there you are!”

“captain…” you smiled up at him and tried to remember when they stopped being forced and only an act.

each time you addressed him as captain, luffy swore he malfunctioned just a little bit. he pulled you the rest of the way up, dragging you directly into his lap like he forgot there were others around.

you hummed contently, “good morning…” what you had meant as a quick greeting kiss, luffy always escalated. he pulled you closer, kissing you with the fervor of a man that had not, in fact, seen you eight hours previously. you tilted your head slowly as luffy traced down your neck. you put a hand on his chest, steadying him with a breathy laugh.

“luffy—“

“hmm?” he pulled away from you slowly, eyes glossy and pupils blown.

“let me at least eat first…”

“oh, great idea! i could go for seconds!”

you eyed him in amusement, huffing slightly as he dragged you down the figurehead and towards the gulley. “good morning, beautiful. i was wondering when you’d show up… luffy was wandering around like a lost puppy waiting for you.”

luffy gave you an innocent smile, blushing slightly.

it hadn’t always been like this. you had no intention of falling for the captain at all, or forming any kind of romantic relationship. you had heard of a crew going to the grand line and taken your opportunity. sanji, tending the bar at the time, had told you everything with only one coy smile to him. you had taken one look at the crew and rethought your odds greatly– but you had been proven wrong again and again and the straw hat crew had turned your entire world on its side.

even the captain seemed to be fond of you from the beginning. luffy was always checking on you, always asking for you specifically to accompany him when off the ship. it had originally made it easier to make more requests, it had been easier to get anything you needed— though anyone on the ship wouldn’t have hesitated to make sure you were comfortable and taken care of— and it was even easier to actually fall for him.

the small smiles that got you anything, the slight brush of his arm that had him stopping whatever he was doing and giving you his full attention… it had shifted to something beyond just an end goal— you had wanted to be around him. you wanted to greet him before anyone else… you wanted those few touches to linger and shift into something else.

you still felt guilty— dragging him along on whatever self serving agenda you had. but then it had become real and you were more scared than you had ever been. because that wasn’t supposed to happen. you were never supposed to stay with this crew… you were never supposed to fall for the captain in a straw hat, but now that’s all you wanted.

you had told luffy once, on the quiet of the ram’s head, that you were sorry. you hadn’t meant to use him and that you promised now it was real.

luffy just looked over at you with those constant soft eyes, the smallest smile on his face, “i know that. at the time i just thought i was so lucky to spend time with you. i knew you would never actually go for someone like me… but then the more time i spent with you, the more i realized you were perfect for me. and you were always meant to be here with me.”

shit.

you had cried then.

and every wall you had put up and every brick you had placed to be independent and on your own shattered. because you wanted him. you wanted to be with the captain of the straw hats. you wanted to be by his side when he found the one piece, more than you ever wanted anything.

it was impossible to hide from him, you learned quickly. he was always there— circling you, looking out for you, telling you what was wrong when you hadn’t even been able to identify it yourself. horrifyingly, you fell for him fast. he defended you in arguments even against zoro, he had protected you on more than three occasions, as if it was just the only thing that had ever crossed his mind to do.

you fell hard. and he loved you with every bit of himself, just like he did everything else. sometimes he was dizzying, sometimes he took your breath away just by the sheer force of him—

“are you alright?”

a hand settled on your shoulder as you leaned against the barrier, elbow brushing against the orange tree. you glanced over at the soft brown eyes under the familiar black curls.

“i’m good, luffy… very good.”

“you were thinking about something…”

it wasn’t a question.

“you.”

this made luffy grin like a kid on their birthday, overlooking their stash of presents. “i like hearing that…”

you smiled to yourself and let your head fall on his shoulder. his hand was there immediately; pulling you closer, grabbing you, always acting as if he hasn’t seen you in years. you placed a delicate kiss under his jaw and he pulled you fully into his lap with a grin.

“oi, lovebirds! remember we can see you.”

“ah, i think it’s charming… look at how pathetically whipped our captain is. if his eyes could be heart shaped i think they would be.”

“sanji, not everyone is as hopelessly romantic as you.”

“and yet she landed with luffy and not me…”

you smirked to yourself, glancing over your shoulder at sanji, “are you jealous, gorgeous?”

sanji muttered a curse under his breath as you batted your eyelashes with a grin. he still couldn’t handle female attention— and you still thought it was great fun to mess with him.

“sanji!” luffy huffed, crossing his arms and pouting, “stop flirting with my girlfriend!”

sanji gaped, stammering over protests, “i— i wasn’t! i wasn’t, luffy! she—“

luffy snorted, cackling like it was the funniest joke in the world. sanji cursed again, looking at you like you were responsible for his constant torment and verbal assaults.

you smiled innocently, eyes sparkling mischievously. zoro was nearly as amused as you; always thoroughly enjoying jokes at the cook’s expense.

“i don’t see why you’re laughing, mosshead! she tried flirting with you, too! you just are broken or something!”

zoro snorted, smirking in even more amusement, “i happen to remember that i was the first one she tried fighting…”

“usopp was the easiest. i think he was too easy… he was tripping over his own jaw when she winked at him.”

nami rolled her eyes, glancing between you and luffy, “for all the torture she put you boys through, i don’t think she planned on falling for that one.”

sanji grinned, “she certainly didn’t. i would have been the obvious choice…”

“oh, yes. the blond haired blue eyed cook.”

“well it wouldn’t be the mosshead!”

zoro snorted and luffy had reappeared to shove sanji in the face with an irritated expression. his overprotective jealousy was rather adorable to you. his possessiveness when any male gaze was on you was more amusing to the crew than his love for food— until it was directed onto them.

“luffy, be nice to sanji. he really tried…” you winked at sanji playfully and sanji huffed. you turned your attention back to luffy, fingers sliding up the space of his stomach between his unbuttoned shirt, “he just couldn’t compete with brown eyes and black curls…”

luffy melted into you, tensing and breathing in slowly, eyes dilating as if hit with an adrenaline shot. he leaned in towards you, eyelids heavy and mouth parted just slightly; now looking remarkably like he was drugged or in a trance.

you grinned up at him, looking innocent despite your hands on either side of his shirt. luffy’s eyes softened, though there was still that slightly wild look about him. you placed a quick kiss on his jaw and his smile grew. he put his hand on his hat, like he always did when you kissed him— like he was preparing to be knocked off his feet.

“the hair, huh?” luffy’s eyes sparkled, smiling softly with the faintest teasing expression. you smirked faintly, tilting your head, “among other things.” you straightened his shirt that you had messed up, smiling up at him.

“you’re still happy here?”

you paused, as if offended by the question.

“with me? you don’t regret it? you’re still…”

“luffy.” you turned to face him fully, “i plan on following you to the end… until you find the one piece and become king of the pirates…”

“or until you’re sick of me…” he said it like he believed it.

you shook your head, “no. i think we’ll both be old and grey and retired on a beach somewhere before that happens…”

luffy beamed, seeming to stand straighter and get closer. he kissed you again and there was collective groans from the crew. they had thought— perhaps hoped— that the pda and luffy being all hands and puppy eyed and pathetic for you would be a phase you would grow out of.

that likely wouldn’t happen in this life time…

[invincibledc]

Batfam (or just Damian) with a Sweet//Soft Al-Ghul Twin! Reader who loves to cuddle! (Can be during naps or in general. :3)

BATFAMILY X SOFT!AL-GHUL!TWIN READER

When the softer twin loves cuddles.

Y/n and Damian were the same in skills.

Personality? No.

You and Damian are like yin and yang. Moon and Sun, the classic duo that everyone overuses when they want to be different from others.

But you are different from Damian.

You’re too soft.

He’s ruthless.

So maybe that’s why he finds himself being cuddled by his twin sibling who seemed not to have a care in the world.

You had a cuddling problem.

Sleeping in general? You’re sitting by someone and cuddling them.

You’re like some kinda kitten just wanting warmth.

Jason was the first one you cuddled close to, making Damian mad cause first of all… you’re his sibling and second of all, YOU’RE HIS SIBLING?!!

So Damian moved Jason out of the way and hugged you. And Damian doesn’t do hugs.

Tim was once playing on his switch when he saw his preteen sibling walking over before cuddling against him. He froze before he kept playing.

Dick was gushing when you cuddled him, he’d been WAITING for his little sibling to cuddle him. He took so many pictures that he put one as his profile picture.

“Oh yeah, that’s my ex-assassin of a little sibling cuddling me after school.”

Bruce was the last person, he saw how you cuddled with the others in your sleep.

He just didn’t expect his small child to be curled upon his lap as he put data in the bat computer.

Bruce just let out a small smile before continuing to type in a report for the latest crimes that happened in Gotham.

[teenragerp1]

PORTGAS D. ACE likes carrying you

Whitebeard pirates reader !

Reader is under Marco's division

Imagine minding your own business and that little piece of shit comes and picks you up throwing you around his shoulder and smacking your butt you glare at him demanding he should put you down but he just says nah your good here the embarrassing part is that the whole crew saw it.

And he always gets a beating from Marco everytime he does that i mean what commander would allow that

Mostly when you and ace are alone he likes it when you sit on his lap or when your out on a mission and your tired he carries you on his back you always ask if your not to heavy for him and he just shrugs ans says your light weight he also likes embarrassing you just to get a reaction from you.

One time you were with the maids and he randomly sneaks by and blows on your neck even tho he gets a beating he will still do it again he never learns 😭

[mareszawrites]

All The Ways I Loosed You.

Prologue

Platonic!Yan!Batfam x Neglected!Bat sibling.

Warning: Death, mentions of violence. Reader is GN.

Bruce, in all his flaws, never thought he would pass through the feeling of losing another of his children. So why? Why was your body in that alley? Why are your blood painting the walls red? Both his knees gave in, hitting the ground with force and despite the foreigner sensation, the only thing he could do was reach for your body. 

Y/N Wayne for all their life, be it in action or in appearance, resembled Bruce too much. To the point, Bruce couldn't help but drive himself away from his firstborn. The child was everything he hated about himself. But now, as he cradled the child's body in his arms, nothing could get through his mind, except the way he treated you along the years.

Was he even worthy of holding your body like that?

From all of his children, Dick and you would be the ones most competent, so he paid no mind when you were not assigned a partner, he knew you were used to going on solo missions. But it was when your pained scream through the comms that Bruce knew he shouldn't have brushed aside your lack of company. Your ragged breath made a shiver run down Bruce's spine, your siblings voices soon filling the device but you didn't respond.

It wasn't until Barbara's voice came through ‘They are going to kill them, B’ that his legs finally moved, he was the closest to your location and yet when he got there, it was already too late. Your blood was still warm when Bruce hugged your body close, but your heart was no longer beating, the silence of it making Bruce's head dizzy.

It didn't take much time for the rest of his children to gather around the scene, with each of them digesting the image in front of them in different ways. Tim was the one who took it the worst.

“No, I calculated everything, that was not supposed to happen. They are fine right, B? Please, tell me they are fine.”

Being the one to make the plan, he couldn't help but think that it was because of him that your body laid lifeless on his fathers arms. Dick hugged Tim trying to comfort him, but his tears just made the younger one panic even more. Shoving his older brother's body out of the way, Tim started to vomit, his limbs trembling in fear and guilt.

Bringing his fingers to close your eyes, Bruce finally moved. Standing up with your body, the man hid the sight of you from his other children by pulling his cape over you, he didn't want to show your condition to them. Bruce's face was covered by his own tears,the feeling of your body now turning cold was like a whiplash to his consciousness.

And just like that, Bruce lost you for the first time. He didn't know what was coming for him.

The pain of losing a child is one of the rare things people can overcome. Grief doesn't go away, you just learn how to manage your life around it and because of that Bruce still occasionally had some flashes of it through his mind.

The image of your body in his arms. The sensation of the blood running through his fingers. The stillness of your eyes, as he closed your eyelids. 

But that… It must be some kind of sick joke, otherwise why was he seeing you sitting at the table, eating breakfast as if nothing happened. Your eyes looked at him in confusion of the way Bruce was standing looking at them, but Bruce could only notice the way your eyes were full of life. His legs moved with urgency, reaching for you and embracing your body against his, face tucked between his shoulder and the crook of his neck.

“Bruce…? Did you have a nightmare?”- Their voice came cautious, not used to the man displaying any physical affection to them.

‘Bruce, not father’

Despite calling him by his name, Bruce felt relieved. After your death, he longed so much to hear your voice, the last bits of it being the pained scream that haunted his mind every so often. 

“Yes, baby. It was a nightmare.”- He said, still holding your body.

Looking at him wide eyed, still confused, you gave a few pats on the man's back before trying to get out of his hold, which failed as he kept hugging you. Soon enough, your sibling started to fill the room, each of them having the same reaction as your father.

“Why are you guys acting like that?”- You said, you were confused,after being hugged in one morning more times than the last ten years.

‘They don't remember.’ Was their first thought at their sibling demeanour, being completely oblivious of what had happened. And despite seeing how uncomfortable you were, none of them could bring themselves to stop. 

Outside, out of the detective's sight, a funnel of purplish clouds was forming. Thunder and lightning occasionally strike between them with loud noise. It was the premise of unfortunate times.

You feel your body tingle, shivers run down your body and as if hypnotized, you shift your attention from your family to the window beside you. Following your gaze, Bruce set his sight at the sky, his hands unconsciously grabbing you and bringing you close to his body. He tried calling you, but you didn't answer. Just like last time, you didn't answer their calls either. 

It was only when he held your chin and shifted your head back to him, that you stopped looking at the window.

“Are you okay?”- He asked, brows furrowed in worry.

You didn't answer with words, only nodded your head. Your mind felt numb, something scraping your guts. You don't belong here, something said in your mind and you looked again to the ominous looking clouds. Bruce felt his heart accelerate beyond measure as he  noticed your eyes hollowing it each time it set its sight in the sky. 

The same eyes he closed carefully.

His chest aches as his breath fails to reach his lungs properly.

It was in that instant that Bruce knew he would lose you again. 

[d3stinyist1red]

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ғᴀʀᴍᴇʀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

You hated the countryside.

Not in the dramatic way people in movies hated things either—where they complained for ten minutes before magically learning to love the fresh air and the scenery. No. You genuinely hated it—hated the heat that stuck to your skin like wet fabric, hated the dirt that somehow always found its way under your nails no matter how much you washed your hands, hated the smell of livestock drifting through the air every morning, hated how quiet it got at night, so quiet you could hear insects screaming in the grass outside your window.

And most of all—you hated that your father lived there because every summer visit meant labor.

Your dad believed in “hard work buildin’ character,” which was just another way of saying he’d drag you out into the fields until your body ached and your skin burned while he barked instructions at you from twenty feet away.

Meanwhile you’d spent the entire year enjoying city life—sleeping in, staying indoors, wasting hours on your phone, eating whatever you wanted whenever you wanted. Then suddenly you were expected to wake up before the sun and work until your muscles felt like they were splitting apart.

It was miserable.

Packing your bags had been easy enough. Just throw clothes into a suitcase and ignore your mother giving you sympathetic looks from the doorway. Leaving your actual life behind though? That part sucked. You practically mourned your bed before walking out the front door.

The drive felt too long.

Every mile farther from the city made you more irritated. Buildings disappeared. Stores disappeared. Signal disappeared. Eventually all that remained were endless stretches of land, fences, patches of wheat, old tractors rusting in grass, and skies so open it almost felt uncomfortable.

When your father’s truck finally pulled into the gravel driveway, you stared at the old farmhouse with immediate dread.

Same chipped paint.

Same creaky porch.

Same stupid windmill off in the distance.

You let out a long sigh while dragging your suitcase out of the car—and the heat hit immediately.

Dry. Heavy. Brutal.

Your father clapped a rough hand onto your shoulder with enough force to nearly shove you forward. “Quit sulkin’. Ain’t gonna kill ya to spend a lil’ time outside.”

Easy for him to say.

The first day passed surprisingly fast though. Maybe because your father was oddly softer after not seeing you for months. Dinner had been decent. You talked a little, laughed once or twice.

And thankfully, he didn’t force you into the fields immediately. You spent the evening sitting on the porch while cicadas screamed in the trees, pretending the entire trip might not be completely terrible.

Then morning came—violently in fact.

You woke up to your father pounding on your bedroom door at seven in the morning, and groaned.

“Up.”

You nearly choked yourself in the pillow to death.

The room was already warm from the sun leaking through the curtains. You dragged yourself out of bed looking half-dead while your father tossed clothes at you.

“Wear somethin’ light. Gonna be hot today.”

No kidding.

You reluctantly changed into shorts and a thin shirt, already annoyed by how exposed you felt. The countryside somehow made everything feel more embarrassing. Maybe because everyone stared too long here, maybe because there was nothing else to look at except each other.

You barely had time to wake up properly before your father marched you outside.

The fields stretched endlessly under the burning sun, golden and green blending together beneath the bright sky. Workers were already moving through rows of crops in the distance. You hated how alive everyone looked this early.

Then your father introduced you to him.

“Axilen!” your father called.

You turned lazily—and immediately regretted it.

The man walking toward you was huge, not just tall but built like a damn fridge.

Muscular arms strained beneath the sleeves of his worn shirt, sun-bronzed skin glistening slightly from sweat already gathered across his neck and collarbone. His jeans were dusty, boots caked with dirt, and his hands looked rough enough to split wood barehanded.

And his eyes—

His eyes landed on you and didn’t leave, not for a second.

It was immediate, and shameless—shameless in the way his gaze dragged down your body slowly before returning to your face with a grin that looked far too pleased.

“Well now,” he drawled.

His accent was thick—deep countryside. Words slow and honeyed, vowels stretching lazily off his tongue. “Ain’t ya just beautiful.”

You blinked awkwardly.

Your father didn’t seem bothered at all.

Axilen stepped closer, still staring openly. “Lord above… ain’t got a flaw on ya either.”

His eyes moved again—up, down— slow like he was savoring the sight.

You shifted uncomfortably, offering an awkward nod purely because your father stood beside you and you didn’t want to start problems immediately.

Unfortunately, that tiny reaction seemed to completely charm him.

Axilen grinned wider, dimples appearing in his cheeks. “Cute too.”

You hated him already.

The work started immediately after introductions, and somehow Axilen made everything worse.

Everywhere you went—he followed.

Every row you worked on suddenly became his row too. Every basket you carried mysteriously got taken from your hands before you could finish. Every task turned into an excuse for him to hover beside you talking endlessly while you sweated yourself half to death beneath the blazing sun.

“You city folk always this delicate?” he teased while effortlessly lifting something you struggled carrying earlier.

You wiped sweat from your forehead irritably. “No. I just don’t enjoy manual labor.”

He laughed at that, adams apple bobbing, his chuckle deep and loud. “Aw, don’t worry. I’ll take care’a the hard stuff.”

You almost rolled your eyes hard enough to collapse.

And the worst part was how persistent he was—most people backed off when you acted uninterested, axilen didn’t.

If anything, it encouraged him more.

You’d ignore him and he’d simply move closer. You’d answer with one-word replies and he’d grin like you’d flirted with him. Every dismissive look you gave him only made his expression soften into something dangerously fond.

It was irritating and weird, especially because he stared at you constantly. And it wasn't like it was subtle either.

Every time you glanced up, he was already looking like he physically could not stop himself.

You bent down to pull weeds from the soil, sweat sticking your shirt against your back while the sun roasted your skin alive. A shadow fell over you seconds later.

Of course it did.

Axilen crouched beside you easily, broad shoulders blocking some of the sunlight.

“Y’know,” he started casually, “never seen someone look so pretty workin’ in dirt before.”

You exhaled sharply.

“get lost,” you muttered.

He grinned instantly, that grin was becoming a problem.

“Careful there, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice dropping lower. “Might get the wrong message.”

You frowned up at him. “What message?”

“That yer playin’ hard t’ get.”

You stared at him flatly.

He just looked amused.

But Axilen genuinely didn’t understand why you weren’t warming up to him yet. In his mind, this was practically fate.

The second he saw you standing there beside your father, suitcase in hand and irritation written all over your face, something inside him had latched onto you instantly.

He’d grown up in this town his entire life—seen the same people, same women, same routines, nothing ever changed.

Then suddenly you arrived looking all soft and pretty and completely out of place beneath the country sun, and Axilen felt like someone had slammed a hook straight through his ribs.

He couldn’t stop looking at you, didn’t want to.

The way your face twisted whenever you got annoyed was adorable to him. The way you clearly hated the heat made him weirdly affectionate, even your attitude charmed him.

Especially your attitude.

Axilen always got pissed off when city people always looked down on countryside folk. Yet there you were in shorts that showed off your legs while glaring at him like he was a mosquito buzzing around your head, and he just bit his bottom lip to keep from groaning.

You were cute—so damn cute.

And you smelled good, not like dirt or hay or sweat, you smelled clean and sweet—wrong for this place.

Axilen liked that too.

He watched you more than he worked honestly. He watched the way you wiped sweat from your neck, watched your irritated expressions. He watched your fingers struggle with simple tasks, watched the way you sighed dramatically every five minutes.

And by lunchtime, Axilen had already decided he was gonna keep you.

Not literally, of course.

…Well, actually..

“Yer burnin’ up,” he said later when he noticed your face flushed from heat.

“No shit.”

He laughed again. “Language.”

You glared.

He loved when you glared.

Axilen stepped behind you suddenly, making you tense when his large hand brushed your shoulder lightly before tugging your hat lower over your face to shield your eyes from the sun.

"there." He murmured, and your stomach twisted in annoyance.

“Stop touching me.”

He blinked once, then smiled softly. “Can’t really help it.”

That answer made your skin crawl slightly—not because he sounded threatening, but because he sounded sincere, entirely too sincere like touching you had become instinct already.

The day dragged on endlessly.

At one point your father sent the two of you to repair fencing farther from the main fields, which really meant trapping you alone with Axilen for nearly an hour.

You nearly died internally.

Axilen, unfortunately, seemed thrilled, and the walk there was torture because he refused to stop talking.

“Told yer daddy I’d help out with ya personally.”

“Why?”

“Wanted t’ spend time with ya.”

You exhaled quietly.

He smiled at the sound.

“You always this grumpy?”

“When I’m overheating, yes.”

“Ain’t overheating. Yer just dramatic.”

You shot him a look.

He grinned immediately. “There’s that face again.”

You seriously considered shoving him into a ditch.

When you reached the fencing area, Axilen got to work quickly while you awkwardly attempted helping. Except every few minutes he’d interrupt to hover over you.

“No, no—hold it like this.”

His hands covered yours from behind, warm and huge—rough palms against your skin.

You immediately stiffened.

Axilen noticed, and his expression softened instantly.

“You nervous ‘round me?”

“No.”

“You lyin’?”

“Yes.”

That actually made him laugh hard enough to bend forward slightly.

“Cute little thing.”

You hated how often he called you cute.

Or sweetheart.

Or pretty.

Or darlin’.

Every sentence out of his mouth sounded flirtatious somehow.

Even when he was talking normally his voice carried this low lazy warmth that made everything sound way too intimate.

At some point you sat beneath a tree for shade while drinking water, completely exhausted.

Axilen watched you openly while leaning against the fence.

“You know,” he said eventually, “ain’t never seen someone lookin’ so miserable.”

“Glad I could entertain you.”

“Oh, ya do.”

You frowned slightly.

Something about his tone changed, still warm, and still playful but heavier now.

His eyes lingered on your face too long.

“You got no idea what ya do t’ me.”

You stared at him cautiously.

Axilen smiled again, but this one was quieter, softer.

It should not have looked that intense after one day.

And by evening, everybody noticed Axilen hovering around you constantly. The older workers teased him relentlessly for it.

“Boy’s gone stupid already.”

“Ain’t seen him this lovestruck ever.”

“Careful, kid. He’ll follow ya home.”

They laughed.

Axilen didn’t deny it.

That was the concerning part.

Even during dinner at your father’s house, Axilen somehow ended up there too. Apparently helping neighbors often ate together around here. Unfortunately for you, that meant enduring his attention for another two hours.

He sat across from you staring constantly.

Your father found it hilarious.

Axilen found it mesmerizing whenever you got irritated enough to snap at him.

“You gonna keep starin’ all night?”

“Probably.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“Ain’t no point lyin’ ‘bout pretty things."

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before returning upward again.

His mama always told him to persist when he wanted something—and that was exactly what he was gonna do, just now the goal is you.

hope u enjoyed this !! <33