Happy_Law :D

|21|🇲🇽|she/her

[hppylaw]

Extremely OLD Master list

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WARNING: Everything that I wrote in these fanfics are extremely bad written! I wrote these when I was A. half asleep B. really young and C. hated writing but loved writing fanfics, that is why a lot of these fics have bad grammar!

UPDATE: I am currently in the process of trying to revise/edit my very old fics, so that at least my old fics are consumable but that is going to take a while! So if anyone used to like these fics, well at least it is finally getting an revision! ₍₍⚞(˶ˆᗜˆ˵)⚟⁾⁾ I am trying to finish editing the series fics one, but so far I managed to get the whole Barry Allen section finished, now heading onto the Steve Rogers one ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

Barry Allen/Grant Gustin

1-Your not the only one (smut)•

•~•~•~•

2- Strange Feeling (series)

•~•~•~•

3- Legacy (series)

•~•~•~•

4-Because I’m not needed

•~•~•~•

7. Stole my heart•

•~•~•~•

8. Loved...

•~•~•~•

Steve Rogers/ Chris Evans

1. Dreams (series)

•~•~•~•

2.Shy=Confidence

•~•~•~•

3. I don’t expect you to understand

•~•~•~•

4. Your my Future•

•~•~•~•

5. That Special Compass•

•~•~•~•

6. Top or bottom•

•~•~•~•

8. Of Love (series)

•~•~•~•

11. Italy (smut)

•~•~•~•

12. Feel it

•~•~•~•

Peter Parker/Tom Holland

1. Paper Heart

Last Updated: 2021

[softcanonchaos]

♡ ♡ The Songbird They Silenced ♡ ♡

♡ Pairing: Keigo Takami (Hawks) x Fem!Reader

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♡ Summary:

Before there was Hawks, there was you.

The Hero Commission’s first experiment.

The girl whose wings became the blueprint for Japan’s future Number Two Hero.

They took your wings.

They stole your voice.

Then they erased your existence.

Years later, Hawks still carries the weight of your sacrifice, returning every week to care for the only person he could never save.

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🚫 Warnings:

✦ 18+ Content

✦ Childhood Friends to Lovers

✦ Slow Burn

✦ Heavy Angst

✦ Hurt/Comfort

✦ Hero Commission Abuse

✦ Child Abuse

✦ Medical Experimentation

✦ Psychological Trauma

✦ PTSD

✦ Wing Mutilation / Graphic Injury

✦ Blood & Gore

✦ Mute Reader

✦ Protective Hawks

✦ Happy Ending (Eventually)

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📝 Word Count: ~9k

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♡ Author’s Note:

This was originally written for a request, but I accidentally got way too attached to these two and… well… I’m kind of tempted to write more parts. 😭

Huge thanks to @nixxy298 for the request. You’re going to be the death of me (in the best way possible). 🤍 I genuinely love your brain and all your ideas.

Please mind the warnings! This story gets pretty dark before it gets better.

Enjoy! ♡

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The night smelled like damp earth and wilted jasmine from the old woman’s window box next door. You were perched on the rusted fire escape, legs dangling over the side, a stolen melon pan cradled in your lap. The metal groaned under your slight weight, a familiar complaint in the symphony of the sleeping city. Down below, the world was painted in monochrome by the lone streetlamp, its light catching the oily sheen of a puddle.

Movement flickered in the alley's deep shadow.

Not a cat. Cats moved with liquid grace, with purpose. This was a frantic, scrabbling scramble, a clumsy attempt at stealth that failed spectacularly. A small figure, no bigger than you, tumbled out from behind a dumpster and landed hard on the asphalt with a muffled "oof!"

He was a mess of scrawny limbs and oversized, threadbare clothes. But what caught the light, what made you forget about the sweet bread cooling in your hands, were the wings.

They were magnificent. Huge, even folded as tightly as they were against his back, and the color of a dying sunset, of fresh-spilled blood, of a cardinal's flash against winter snow. Feathers, the kind you only saw in pictures of exotic birds, ruffled and settled as he pushed himself up. He shook his head, a shaggy mop of blond hair falling into his eyes, and you saw the glint of gold there, bright and wary.

He'd spotted you. His body went rigid, a wild thing caught in the beam of a hunter's flashlight. He took a half-step back, preparing to bolt.

Your mother’s sharp words echoed in your head—don't talk to the street rats, they carry diseases—but your legs were already moving. You swung off the fire escape, dropping the last few feet and landing with a soft thud that sent dust motes dancing in the lamplight. He flinched, wings twitching.

You didn't speak. You just held out the melon pan. A peace offering.

His eyes darted from your face to the bread, then back again. Suspicion warred with a hunger so palpable you could feel it from where you stood. Slowly, cautiously, he approached. His fingers, grimy and with small, half-healed cuts on the knuckles, snatched the offering. He retreated a few steps, sinking his teeth into it with a desperation that made your chest ache.

"My name's Keigo," he said around a full mouth, crumbs dusting his chin. "What about you?"

You told him your name, the words feeling strange and unused in the quiet night.

"Are you lost?" you asked, your own voice softer than you intended.

"Nah." He crumpled the wax paper in his fist. "Just… getting some air."

You looked him over again. The too-small shirt, the dirt smudged on his cheek. "You live around here?"

He didn't answer, just took another large bite, his gaze flicking toward the street. You decided not to push. Instead, you gestured vaguely toward the space over your own shoulder. "I have wings too, you know."

He froze, mid-chew. His golden eyes, wide with a kind of electrified curiosity, locked onto your back. "Show me."

It wasn't a request. It was a demand, but a breathless one.

With a thought, you let them unfurl. They weren't like his. His were bold and fiery, a statement. Yours were the color of twilight, a soft, shimmering gradient from deep black to a dusky gray. They were smaller, more delicate, the feathers almost impossibly soft, like down. They caught the faint light and shimmered, looking less like solid matter and more like captured starlight.

Keigo stared, his forgotten bread hanging from his fingers. "Whoa."

You felt a flush of pride, warmth spreading through your chest. Nobody had ever looked at your wings like that. Your mother saw them as a nuisance, something that ruined her sweaters and made you stand out. But he… he saw them.

"They're… pretty," he finally managed, the word sounding inadequate even to your own ears. "Mine are just red."

"Just red?" You shook your head, stepping closer. "They look like fire. Like a hero's."

The word hung between you, charged and impossible. He ducked his head, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "I'm not a hero."

"Not yet," you corrected, and for the first time that night, he smiled. A real smile, not the wary, sharp-edged thing he'd worn before. It transformed his face.

"Not yet," he agreed, his eyes finding yours again, held fast. "You gonna be one too?"

You looked at your own wings, at the way the feathers seemed to drink the light. "I don't know if mine are good for fighting."

"They don't have to be," Keigo said, suddenly serious. He took another step forward, close enough now that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. "They're yours. That's all that matters."

In the quiet alley, with the jasmine scent thick in the air, that felt like the most profound truth you had ever heard. He was just a boy with fiery wings and stolen bread. You were just a girl with twilight wings and nowhere else to be. And in that moment, that was everything.

******

The alley became your place. A sanctuary of rusted metal and damp concrete, lit by a single, benevolent streetlamp. Each night you’d steal something—sweet buns, onigizi from the market, once even a whole can of peach rings—and Keigo would appear, materializing from the shadows like a phantom. He never said where he came from, and you never asked where you’d go after you gave him his share.

The conversations started small, like cautious steps on thin ice. He’d talk about the sky, the way the wind felt different at dawn versus dusk. You’d listen, fascinated by a world you’d only ever seen from the ground. He’d describe the freedom of flight, the city shrinking below him into a pattern of lights, the feeling of being utterly, completely alone and yet connected to everything.

You shared your own secrets in fragments. The silence in your apartment, the way your mother’s eyes would slide past you as if you were a piece of furniture she’d grown tired of. He understood without needing the full story. His own life was a patchwork of empty spaces and hard edges.

One night, you brought a small, squashed slice of strawberry shortcake. The cream had mostly melted, but Keigo devoured it like it was a feast. He was licking a stray smear of frosting from his thumb when he finally broached the topic that had been simmering between you for weeks.

"Are they… can you fly with them?" He gestured with his chin toward your back, toward the twilight wings you kept tucked close.

"Sometimes," you admitted. "Not well. Not like you."

His feathers ruffled, a soft, rustling sound. "They're still wings. That's what counts."

You smiled, a small, sad thing. "They're not very strong."

"Strength isn't everything," he said, and then he did something that made your breath catch. He reached out, not to touch your face or your hand, but to your wing. His fingers were tentative, hesitant, hovering over the soft dusk-colored feathers. "They look… gentle."

You held perfectly still, letting him touch you. His calloused fingertips, rough from a life you couldn't imagine, brushed against the impossibly soft down. A strange, tingling warmth spread from the point of contact, a current that ran up your spine and made your own wings give a little shudder. They were sensitive, more sensitive than you'd ever told anyone, and his touch felt like static, like a pleasant hum.

Keigo snatched his hand back as if he'd been burned, his face flushed. "Sorry."

"It's okay," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

You sat in silence for a long moment, the city humming around you. The night was growing older, the air cooler. Soon, you’d have to go back to your empty apartment, and he’d have to vanish back into his mysterious world.

"Hey," he said, breaking the quiet. "Close your eyes."

You did, a knot of apprehension and excitement tightening in your stomach. You heard a soft whump, a rush of displaced air. Then, something impossibly light and warm settled on your hair, on your shoulders. Red feathers. They smelled like wind and wild things.

You opened your eyes. Keigo had extended a few of his primary feathers, draping them over you like a cloak. He was watching you, his golden eyes intense and unreadable in the dim light.

"What's this for?" you asked, your voice hushed.

"Keeping you warm," he said simply. But it felt like more. It felt like a promise. A shared secret. A fragile, beautiful connection in a world that had offered you neither.

That was the last night you saw him in the alley.

The next day, the silence in your apartment was broken. Not by your mother, but by a sharp, crisp knock on the door. It was a sound of authority, of purpose. When your mother opened it, her bored expression tightened with a flicker of something you'd never seen before: fear.

Two people stood in the doorway. They wore pristine, black suits, their faces blank, their eyes like chips of ice. They didn't look at your mother. They looked directly at you.

"You are the girl with the wings," the woman said. It wasn't a question. Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "You will come with us."

Your mother didn't protest. She didn't even look at you as you were led away, their cool, firm grips on your arms steering you out the door and into a sleek, black car. You craned your neck, searching the alley, searching the sky, searching for a flash of red. But there was nothing. You were being erased, and the only person who might have noticed was nowhere to be found.

***

The next few years were a blur of white walls and sterile rooms. They called it "training." You called it a cage. They tested you. They prodded and poked, making you unfurl your wings for hours until the muscles screamed. They measured the luster of your feathers, the span, the texture. They never smiled. They never used your name. You were "the asset."

It was during one of these tests that they discovered your other gift. Your voice. You were tired, frustrated, and in a rare act of defiance, you refused to perform a simple maneuver. A single, clear note of song left your lips—a melody you hummed to yourself when the silence became too much.

The effect was instantaneous and terrifying. The scientist with the clipboard froze, his eyes glazing over. The guard by the door slumped against the wall, a placid smile on his face. You were still humming, and a wave of power, of euphoric control, washed over you. You could feel their minds, pliable and open, ready to be shaped.

The sound of a palm cracking against your face broke the spell. "Silence!" the woman—the same one from your apartment—snarled, her own eyes sharp and clear, though she’d swayed on her feet for a second. "You will never do that again."

But they knew now. Your wings were unique, but your voice was a weapon. And the Commission did not let weapons lie idle.

One afternoon, they led you to a new wing of the facility. Through a one-way mirror, you saw him.

He was older, taller, but you knew him instantly. The shaggy blond hair was gone, replaced by a neat, styled cut. He wore a training uniform, and he was moving with a fluid, deadly grace you’d never seen before. His wings were a controlled blaze of crimson, each feather a sharp, defined weapon. Keigo.

Beside you, the woman watched him with a look that was almost possessive. "Subject: Hawks. Our second iteration. Everything we learned from you, we applied to him. Your resilience allowed us to shape him. Your pain taught us where the limits were. Your failures ensured his success."

The words were a physical blow. Your suffering had been the blueprint for his perfection. You watched as he flawlessly executed a complex aerial maneuver, a triumphant, sharp cry leaving his lips. A hero's cry.

You felt a strange, hollow feeling in your chest. Was he happy now? Had he forgotten the alley, the melon pan, the red feather cloak?

As if he felt your gaze, he paused mid-flight, his head turning toward the one-way glass. He couldn't see you, but he was looking, searching. His golden eyes, no longer wary but focused and sharp, seemed to pierce right through to you. For a heartbeat, you thought you saw a flicker of the boy from the alley. Then it was gone, replaced by the cool efficiency of the Commission's perfect creation.

***

You never saw him again after that day, not really. But you heard about him. The Commission’s brilliant prodigy. The hero-in-training who could do no wrong. They spoke of him in the sterile hallways, their voices a mixture of pride and ownership. Each report of a successful test, a mastered technique, felt like a new wound.

Your own training changed. The focus was no longer on flight, but on suppression. They wanted you to be silent, still, and small. Your wings, once your pride, were now a liability, a reminder of a past they wanted to erase. They bound them, tight and painful, forcing the delicate twilight feathers into unnatural configurations. The ache became a constant companion, a dull throb in your back that sharpened with every breath.

Your voice was treated with even more fear. They fitted you with a high-tech collar, a cold band of metal that vibrated with a painful warning hum whenever your vocal cords engaged. You learned to communicate in nods and shakes, in the desperate, silent language of the trapped. The fear of punishment was a cage far stronger than any wall.

The day they decided to take your wings, they didn’t warn you.

They called it "recalibration." You were strapped to a metal table, the bright lights overhead blinding you. You didn't struggle anymore. It only made it worse. A man in a lab coat, his face hidden behind a surgical mask, approached with a device that gleamed under the sterile lights. It wasn't a scalpel. It was something worse, something that hummed with a low, menacing energy.

"This will be unpleasant," the woman from your apartment said, her voice as detached as ever. "But necessary. Your potential for sedation is too great a risk. The asset, Hawks, must remain unchallenged."

You didn't understand until the first wave of agony hit.

It wasn't a cut. It was a tearing, a violent, searing separation of soul from body. A scream built in your throat, a raw, piercing thing of pure anguish, but the collar activated, sending a bolt of electricity through your neck that choked the sound into a strangled gasp. Your back arched off the table, vision blurring with tears. You could feel every single root, every nerve ending, being violently ripped from its socket. The scent of burnt feathers and your own blood filled the air.

They weren't just cutting them off. They were erasing them.

When it was over, you were left with two raw, weeping spaces on your back, and an echoing silence inside you that was far more terrifying than any pain. You didn't pass out. You wished you had. You lay there, shuddering, the phantom sensation of feathers still brushing against your skin, a cruel reminder of what you had lost.

The recovery was a hazy nightmare of medication and sterile dressings. The physical pain eventually faded to a dull, chronic ache, but the psychological emptiness remained. You were a bird with a sky but no wings. A sinner with a soul but no song. The threat against your voice, now more real than ever, cemented your silence. You became a ghost haunting the Commission's halls, a pale, hollow-eyed girl who moved through the world without a sound.

It was almost a year later when you saw him again.

Not through glass, but in person. You were being transferred to a new, more permanent living quarters, a small, sparse room with a single window. As two guards escorted you down a corridor, a door ahead opened. And there he was.

Hawks. He was in full costume now, a sleek, tactical suit of yellow and black that made him look every bit the hero they'd built him to be. He was laughing, talking animatedly with another official. He looked confident, vibrant, completely in his element. He was the sun to your endless twilight.

His laughter died in his throat the moment he saw you.

His golden eyes, sharp and intelligent, scanned your face, then drifted down to your back. They widened. A flicker of something—shock, horror, guilt—crossed his features so quickly you might have imagined it. He took a half-step toward you, an unconscious, aborted movement. The official beside him said something, and Hawks’s professional mask snapped back into place, but it was too late. You had seen the crack.

His gaze met yours again, and this time, it held a thousand unspoken apologies. He saw the silent screams, the stolen wings, the extinguished song. And you saw in his eyes that he knew. He knew why. He knew it was for him.

You were pushed past him, your shoulder brushing his arm. For a fleeting second, you felt the intense heat of him, the latent power in those magnificent wings. Then you were gone, escorted into your new prison and the door locked behind you. You sank to the floor, pressing your forehead against the cool wood, and for the first time in a year, a single, hot tear escaped and traced a path down your cheek.

A week after that, your new routine began.

Every Saturday, like clockwork, your door would click open at precisely 7 p.m. In the doorway stood Hawks, no longer in his hero costume, but in simple, comfortable clothes. He never brought guards. He was alone. In his hands, he always carried something. A bag from a bakery, a container of warm soup, a new, soft blanket.

At first, you would just stare at him from your corner, wary and broken. He wouldn't force interaction. He would just enter quietly, place the items on your small table, and then leave. A silent ritual of penance.

One evening, he brought a steaming bowl of udon. The rich, savory scent filled the sterile room, a comfort so profound it made your teeth ache. He set it down, but instead of leaving, he lingered by the door.

"It's from that place… down by the old train station," he said, his voice low, careful. "Remember? You said you liked the broth."

Your head snapped up. It was the longest sentence he had spoken to you since you were children. You hadn't thought he remembered those conversations, those stolen moments in the alley that felt like a lifetime ago.

You watched him, unsure, your hands clenched in your lap.

He took a hesitant step into the room. "They told me… they told me you wouldn't talk anymore." His gaze dropped to the collar around your neck, a flicker of self-loathing in his eyes. "I'm so sorry."

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Sorry. It was such a small word for such a vast crime. A tremor ran through you, a mix of rage and a terrible, bottomless sorrow. You wanted to scream, to curse him, to fling the bowl of udon against the wall. But the phantom pain in your back and the cold weight of the collar kept you silent.

Your silence was its own kind of scream. He flinched as if you’d struck him.

"I know," he whispered, running a hand through his already messy hair. "I know that's not enough. It will never be enough. But… I'm here now. I'll always be here."

And he was. Week after week. He was a constant, quiet presence. He’d bring you books, even though you couldn't ask him to read them. He’d bring you music players with headphones, filling the silence with melodies you could no longer create yourself. He’d talk. He told you about his patrols, about the ridiculous requests from fans, about the taste of cloud cover on a rainy day. He filled your silence with his world, a desperate attempt to share the freedom he had that you didn't.

Slowly, painstakingly, you began to thaw.

You started eating the food he brought while he was still there. You started making eye contact, holding his gaze for longer and longer. You started to communicate in the only ways left to you. A small nod for "yes." A slight shake for "no." A slight tilt of your head when you were curious.

The day he touched you again, it was by accident. He was reaching for a cup on your bedside table, and his fingers brushed against yours. You both froze, the point of contact buzzing with the same static energy from that night in the alley, amplified by years of absence. His gaze shot to yours, and you saw a torrent of emotions: fear, longing, and a deep, bone-aching regret.

He pulled his hand away as if burned. "Sorry."

You shook your head, a small, almost imperceptible motion.

"Can I…?" he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. "Can I see your back?"

The request terrified you. The scars were a gnarled, ugly map of your pain. You had avoided mirrors, avoided looking at the ruin of what was once beautiful. You hid them from yourself. Letting him see… it was an act of ultimate vulnerability.

You hesitated for a long moment, your heart hammering against your ribs. Then, with a trembling breath, you turned around.

You heard his sharp inhale. You felt the air shift as he moved closer. You braced yourself for pity, for revulsion.

Instead, you felt the warmth of his hand hovering just above the scar tissue, not quite touching, as if he were afraid to taint the wreckage with his own skin. The heat from his palm was a balm against the constant, phantom chill.

"They were beautiful," he whispered, his voice thick with an emotion you couldn't name. "The most beautiful things I'd ever seen. Not because of what they could do, but because they were yours."

Your shoulders shook with a silent sob. It was the closest you'd come to crying since the day they took your wings.

"I'm sorry," he said again, the words a ragged confession. "I'm so, so sorry. Every day. Every single day, I fly, and I feel them, your wings. I know it sounds insane, but I do. I feel their weight, their absence. It's a debt I can never repay."

He finally lowered his hand, and his fingers gently, so gently, traced the line of one of your scars. His touch wasn't pity. It was reverence. It was an apology written in the language of skin. He was worshipping the memory of what was lost, mourning it with you.

You didn't pull away. For the first time in years, you leaned into a touch. You leaned into the warmth, into the shared pain, into the fractured connection between you. The silence of the room was no longer empty. It was filled with the unspeakable, with a history that bound you together in blood and stolen flight.

The weeks that followed were a slow, careful dance of reclamation. His visits became longer, the silence between you more comfortable, filled with a quiet understanding that needed no words. He started doing small things for you. He'd brush your hair, the rhythmic, gentle strokes a comforting anchor in the monotony of your days. He’d help you stretch, his hands guiding your limbs in careful, professional motions, always mindful of the sensitive skin on your back.

One evening, he arrived looking utterly exhausted. The vibrant hero was gone, replaced by a weary man with shadows under his eyes. He sank into the chair beside your bed without a word, rubbing a hand over his face.

You slid off the bed and knelt on the floor in front of him. You reached out, your fingers hesitating for a second before gently pulling his hand away from his face. You mimicked his gesture, softly brushing your thumb over the dark circles beneath his eyes. A silent question: Are you okay?

He looked at you, his golden eyes raw and unguarded. "Long day," he murmured, leaning into your touch. "Sometimes… it feels like a lie. All of it. The smiling, the waving. They built a hero, but they forgot to build the person to go inside."

Your heart ached for him. The gilded cage was still a cage. You understood that better than anyone. You took his other hand, holding both of his in yours. You squeezed gently, once. I see you.

A shaky breath escaped him. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. It was an act of surrender. The great hero Hawks, falling apart in the arms of the girl whose life he had inadvertently destroyed. You could feel the tension thrumming through him, the weight of a thousand expectations.

"Just for a minute," he whispered into the small space between you. "Let me just be Keigo."

You closed your eyes, committing the feeling to memory. The warmth of his skin, the faint scent of wind and soap, the soft tickle of his bangs against your forehead. You weren't the asset and the hero. You were two kids from an alley, finding shelter in each other from a world that was too cruel, too bright, too demanding.

When he pulled back, his expression was clearer, the exhaustion softened by a fragile peace. "Thank you," he said, his voice rough.

You just nodded, releasing his hands.

He stood, a new energy in his movements. "I brought something else today." He walked to the door and retrieved a small, flat case. He set it on your bed and opened it. Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a thin, silver choker. Delicate, almost filigree in its design, with a single, small, dark blue stone at the center.

Your breath hitched. You touched the cold, unyielding metal of the collar around your neck, the Commission's brand. A shackle.

"It's not a replacement," Keigo said quickly, reading your hesitation. "It's… an overlay. A distraction. For when you're out of this room. You won't have to see their mark on you." He paused, picking up the silver choker. "The stone is lapis lazuli. It’s supposed to represent wisdom and truth. And… the night sky. I thought… since your wings were twilight…"

The words hung in the air, steeped in a nostalgia so sweet it was painful. He remembered. He remembered everything.

Tears welled in your eyes, hot and sudden. You blinked them back, a small, almost violent shake of your head. You didn't want him to see you cry.

"Hey," he said softly, stepping closer. He reached out, but this time he didn't hesitate. His thumb gently wiped away a tear that had escaped, tracing the path of it down your cheek. "It's okay. You're allowed."

That was the permission you didn't know you needed. A sob tore from your chest, silent and shuddering, a decade of unshed grief breaking free. You covered your face with your hands, your shoulders shaking with the force of it. You weren't just crying for your wings, or your voice. You were crying for the lonely little girl on the fire escape, for the boy with fiery wings and hungry eyes, for the two of you, caught in the gears of a machine you never chose.

He didn't try to stop you. He didn't offer hollow platitudes. He just stood there, a solid, unwavering presence, his hand resting lightly on your head, a comforting weight. He let you break, knowing you could only be put back together if you were allowed to fall apart completely.

When the storm finally passed, you were left feeling hollowed out and strangely clean. You lowered your hands, your face feeling swollen and hot.

Keigo knelt in front of you, the silver choker held in his open palm like an offering. "May I?"

You looked from the delicate piece of jewelry in his hand to the rough, calloused fingers that held it. You thought of the boy who had stolen melon pan, the hero who bore the guilt of your suffering, the man who now offered you a piece of the night sky to hide the brand of your cage.

With a slow, deliberate nod, you gave him your consent.

He moved behind you. You heard the soft click of the new choker's clasp, then felt the cool, smooth metal settle against your skin. It was light, a stark contrast to the heavy, oppressive collar of the Commission. It sat just above it, the dark blue stone resting in the hollow of your throat.

He came back around to face you. "There," he breathed, his golden eyes wide. "Perfect."

He guided you to the small, cracked mirror hanging on the wall. You stared at your reflection. At the pale, haunted girl with too-big eyes. And at her throat. The silver choker gleamed, a delicate, beautiful line against your skin. The blue stone caught the light, a tiny, defiant star. You could barely see the harsh, black line of the Commission's collar underneath. It was still there, a constant, humming threat, but now it was hidden. Now, you had a secret again. A beautiful one.

You reached up, your fingers touching the cool stone. A slow smile spread across your face. It felt foreign, like a muscle you hadn't used in years, but it was real.

Keigo’s reflection smiled with you, a matching look of quiet triumph in his eyes.

"You know," he said, his tone shifting, growing a little lighter. "For someone who doesn't talk, you're surprisingly loud."

You turned from the mirror, your brow furrowed in a silent question.

He gestured vaguely to your face. "Your eyes. They do all the talking. Right now, they're saying, 'I'm going to kill you if you bought that from a tourist trap.'"

You couldn't help it. A huff of air escaped you, the ghost of a laugh. The sound was so unexpected, so alien, that you both froze. Your hand flew to your throat, expecting the collar to punish you for the tiny, involuntary noise.

Nothing happened.

Keigo's eyes widened, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. "Well, look at that," he said softly. "A loophole."

The discovery changed everything. It was a tiny crack in the foundation of your prison. You began to experiment. Small, soft breaths. Huffs of amusement. Exaggerated sighs. They weren't words, but they were sounds. They were yours. Each one was a small act of rebellion, a reclamation of the vocal cords that had been stolen from you.

His visits became something else entirely. They weren't just about care and penance anymore. They were about life. He'd tell you a story, and you'd respond with a series of soft huffs and sighs that conveyed your opinions with surprising clarity. He called it "the language of ghosts."

"You're getting good at this," he said one evening, watching you 'express' your displeasure at the cliffhanger in the book he was reading to you. "Soon you'll be giving full-on lectures."

You gave a decisive snort and threw a pillow at him. He caught it effortlessly, laughing, a bright, unburdened sound that filled your small room. He was different when he was with you here. The hero's armor was gone, leaving behind the Keigo you remembered, the boy with the quick smile and the fierce, loyal heart.

The intimacy grew, a quiet, creeping thing that bloomed in the sterile atmosphere. The way he'd absentmindedly tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The way you'd find yourself watching the steady rise and fall of his chest as he slept in the chair beside your bed, exhausted from a long patrol. The way your hands would brush when he helped you, lingering a second too long.

It all came to a head on a rainy Tuesday. The storm outside rattled the window, mirroring the storm brewing inside you. Keigo was pacing, restless, telling you about a difficult hostage situation. He'd saved everyone, but a civilian had been injured in the process. The guilt was eating him alive.

"I should have been faster," he said, raking a hand through his hair. "I should have seen the angle. If I'd just—" He stopped, his back to you, his wings drooping. "What's the point of these wings if I can't even save one person perfectly?"

You rose from the bed and walked to him. The floor was cold under your bare feet. You stood behind him, hesitating for only a moment before placing your hands gently on the powerful muscles of his back, on either side of his wings.

He went rigid at your touch. "You don't have to—"

You cut him off, not with a sound, but with a feeling. You let your hands press in, a firm, steady pressure. A silent message. You are not perfect. You are enough.

His shoulders sagged, the tension draining out of him. He turned slowly, and you were standing chest to chest. The room was suddenly too small, the air too thick. His golden eyes searched yours, and what he found there made his breath hitch.

"Every single thing they did to you," he whispered, his voice hoarse, "was so I could be this. This… flawless weapon. And I'm not. I'm still just the kid who stole your bread."

His gaze dropped to your lips. The world narrowed to the space between you, to the rain lashing against the window, to the frantic beating of your own heart. He started to lean in, a slow, deliberate movement that felt like it took an eternity.

Then he stopped. A muscle feathered in his jaw. "I can't," he breathed, the words a ragged confession. "I can't take anything else from you."

It wasn't a rejection. It was an act of love so profound it shattered you. He was protecting you, even from himself, from the complication and danger of a relationship that could only ever be defined by trauma.

You didn't move away. Instead, you did the only thing you could. You raised yourself onto your toes, closed the last inch of distance, and pressed your lips against his.

It was a clumsy, desperate kiss. It was years of loneliness, of shared pain, of unspoken longing. It tasted of salt and rain and relief. He froze for a heartbeat, then he was kissing you back, a low groan rumbling in his chest as one of his hands tangled in your hair and the other came to rest on the small of your back, pulling you flush against him.

The kiss deepened, growing from a desperate plea to something hungry, searching. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, a silent question. You opened for him, a soft sigh escaping you. The sound spurred him on. He tilted his head, slanting his mouth over yours, and the kiss became a conversation, a torrent of apologies and acceptance and a desperate, aching need that had been building for a decade.

His wings, those magnificent, fiery wings, wrapped around you both, creating a cocoon of crimson and shadow. The world outside ceased to exist. There was only the rain, the heat of his body, the desperate slide of his lips against yours. He backed you up slowly, gently, until your legs hit the edge of the bed. You sank down onto the mattress, and he followed, hovering over you, his wings forming a sheltering canopy above.

He pulled back, his breathing ragged, his golden eyes dark with an emotion that stole the air from your lungs. He looked at you like you were a miracle, like he was seeing you for the first time. He looked at the silver choker at your throat, then at your lips.

"Say something," he whispered, his thumb tracing your jawline. "Anything. A sound. Let me hear you."

You understood. He wanted to know you were here, with him. That this was real. You drew in a shaky breath, and let it out in a soft, deliberate sigh. A contented, wanting sound.

His eyes fluttered shut. "Thank god."

His kisses trailed down, along your jaw, to the sensitive skin just below your ear. He nipped and soothed, the dual sensations sending shivers down your spine. His hands roamed, tracing the lines of your body with a worshipful reverence that made your heart ache. He was mapping you, memorizing you. He paused at the hem of your shirt, his fingers toying with the fabric.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice a low murmur against your skin.

You answered by arching into him, a silent, unequivocal yes.

He slowly lifted the shirt over your head, baring your torso. His eyes swept over you, dark with desire but softened with an unmistakable tenderness. He saw the scars, the evidence of your shared history, and his expression didn't change. He saw all of you, and he didn't flinch.

"So beautiful," he breathed, the words a benediction. "You're so beautiful."

He lowered his head, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your collarbone, to the swell of your breasts. His hands were everywhere, skimming your sides, your stomach, the sensitive skin of your hips. He was taking his time, a slow, deliberate exploration that was driving you mad. You wanted more, faster, harder, but he was in control, setting a pace that was designed to unravel you piece by piece.

His lips closed over a pebbled nipple, and you gasped, a sharp, wet sound. He flicked his tongue against the sensitive bud, sucking gently, and you felt the pull all the way to your core. Your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft, blond strands, holding him to you.

"That's it," he murmured against your skin. "Let me hear you."

He lavished attention on your breasts, alternating between the two, until you were a writhing, trembling mess beneath him, your soft pants and sighs filling the room. He began to kiss his way down your stomach, his journey unhurried. When he reached the waistband of your pants, he looked up at you, his golden eyes burning with an intensity that took your breath away.

"Can I?" he asked again, his hands resting on your hips.

You couldn't speak. You didn't have a sound left in you beyond the frantic beat of your own heart. So you nodded, a jerky, desperate motion.

He made quick work of your trousers and underwear, stripping them away until you were bare to him. He settled between your thighs, his hands gently pushing them open. You felt a flash of vulnerability, of being utterly exposed, but it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a wave of pure, unadulterated want as he lowered his head.

The first touch of his tongue against your folds was a shock. A slow, deliberate swipe that had your back arching off the bed. He groaned, the sound vibrating against your most sensitive flesh.

"You taste so good," he said, his voice muffled. "Better than I ever imagined."

He set to work with a focused, single-minded intensity. He licked and sucked, exploring every inch of you, learning your body with an artist's precision. He found your clit, that tight, throbbing bundle of nerves, and circled it with the tip of his tongue, teasing, testing.

A broken cry escaped your lips. It was the loudest sound you'd made in years, and it was his name. Not spoken, but felt, a desperate, breathy whisper of a thought.

Keigo.

He froze, his head lifting. His eyes found yours, wide and wild. He had heard you. Not with his ears, but with the very soul of him.

"Say it again," he demanded, his voice raw.

You didn't know how. You only knew that you wanted to. You focused all your longing, all your pleasure, all your love into a single, silent scream, pouring it directly into his mind.

Keigo!

His control snapped. He surged up, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. He ground his hips against yours, the hard, thick length of him straining against his pants. You could feel the heat of him through the fabric, a promise of what was to come.

"I need you," he panted against your lips. "I need to be inside you. Now."

You answered by wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, a silent, desperate plea.

He fumbled with his belt, his movements clumsy with urgency. When he finally freed himself, you reached down, your fingers curling around his hot, silky length. He hissed, his hips jerking into your touch. You explored him, marveling at the weight of him in your hand.

"Careful," he warned, his voice a strained groan. "It's been a while. And you… you're making me lose control."

You didn't want him in control. You wanted the wild, desperate man who had kissed you. The one who heard your silent screams.

He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock teasing your slick folds. He looked down at you, his expression a mixture of awe and anguish.

"I love you," he said, the words a ragged confession. "I've always loved you. From the moment I saw you on that fire escape. Please… know that."

Tears streamed down your face, silent and hot. You poured all your love, all your forgiveness, all your desperate hope into a single, clear thought, a beacon in the darkness of your shared past.

I love you too, Keigo.

A shudder wracked his body. He pushed into you in one slow, inexorable thrust.

The stretch was exquisite. A burn that melted into a deep, satisfying fullness. He was big, and he filled you completely, a perfect, aching fit. He paused, buried to the hilt, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing heavily in the sudden stillness.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice strained.

You couldn't answer with words, but you didn't have to. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss, a soft, tender press of lips that said everything. I'm more than okay. I'm home.

He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was designed to torment and pleasure in equal measure. Each thrust was a stroke, a caress, a question. And your body answered, meeting him, pulling him in deeper.

He shifted his hips, the new angle making his cock drag against that perfect, electric spot inside you. A choked gasp tore from your lips, your body jolting as if struck by lightning.

"Feel that?" he growled, his voice a low rumble against your ear, thick with satisfaction. "That's the spot that makes you soak my cock, isn't it?"

You couldn't form words, only a desperate, needy whine as you locked your ankles behind his back, urging him on. He got the message instantly. "That's what I thought," he grunted, pulling back almost completely before slamming back into you, his hips hammering against yours. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a lewd rhythm that made your head spin. Every thrust sent a jolt straight to your core, the coil in your belly winding tighter, hotter, until you thought you might explode.

"Look at you, taking me so deep," he praised, his voice strained with effort. "You're so fucking wet for me. Are you going to come? Come all over my cock?"

His thumb pressed down hard on your clit, rubbing in merciless circles that matched his punishing pace. The dual sensation was your undoing. The knot in your belly snapped, and pleasure crashed over you in a blinding wave. Your back arched off the bed, a strangled cry of his name tearing from your throat as your inner muscles clamped down on him, fluttering and spasming in ecstasy.

"Good girl," he snarled, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm as he chased his own release. "Take it. Take all of me." With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, a hoarse groan muffled against your neck as he pulsed inside you, pumping you full of his heat. His wings, once spread wide, now curled around you, trapping his scent and the musky smell of sex in the small space.

He was still heavy on top of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breath warm and damp against your skin. You could feel the faint tremor that ran through him, the aftershocks of his orgasm.

Eventually, he stirred, propping himself up on his elbows to look down at you. His golden eyes were soft, hazy with a mixture of satisfaction and a tenderness so profound it made your chest ache. He reached out, gently brushing a sweat-dampened strand of hair from your forehead.

"Hey," he said, his voice a low, intimate murmur.

You offered a soft, contented sigh in response, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the powerful muscles of his back.

A slow, lazy smile spread across his face. He shifted his weight, and you felt him, still hard inside you, give a little twitch. Your breath hitched, a fresh wave of arousal pooling in your belly. His eyes darkened, noticing your reaction instantly.

He didn't speak. Instead, he lowered his head, capturing your lips in a slow, deep kiss that was a world away from the desperate passion from before. This was leisurely, exploratory. He was tasting you, savoring you. When he pulled back, his gaze was molten.

"Turn over," he commanded softly.

It wasn't a request, but the gentleness in his eyes made it easy to obey. He slipped out of you, and you mourned the loss, the sudden emptiness. He guided you, helping you onto your stomach. You felt a flicker of vulnerability as you lay there, your back exposed, the landscape of your scars on full display.

His hands came to rest on your waist, his thumbs stroking the skin just above the curve of your ass. "Don't move," he whispered.

Then you felt it. The soft, ticklish brush of feathers. Not the hard, sharp primaries, but the smaller, softer downy ones from the underside of his wings. They were everywhere, a teasing, ghosting touch that skated over your back, your arms, the backs of your thighs. It was a strange, exquisite torture. You shivered, a helpless whimper escaping your lips.

"Like that?" he murmured, the sound a low vibration you felt more than heard. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "I've thought about this. About touching every inch of you like this. Showing you how beautiful you are."

One of his hands slid down your spine, tracing the line of a particularly nasty scar. He didn't linger on it with pity. He simply acknowledged it, part of the map of you. His fingers dipped lower, into the slick heat between your legs. You were still wet, still sensitive from your orgasm, and you jolted at the contact.

He groaned. "So responsive. So perfect."

He settled behind you, nudging your legs apart with his knee. You felt the hard, hot press of his cock against your entrance, but he didn't enter you. Not yet. He just rested there, a heavy, potent promise. His hands gripped your hips, holding you still.

"You have no idea," he breathed, his voice thick with a wonder that made your heart clench, "what it does to me. Seeing you like this. Knowing I'm the only one who gets to have you like this."

He began to move, but not inside you. He was grinding against you, the length of his cock sliding through your wet folds, the head bumping against your clit with each pass. It was a maddening, teasing friction that built a slow, insidious fire in your core. You pushed back against him, a silent, desperate plea for more.

"Patience," he chuckled, a low, dark sound. He shifted, changing the angle, and the next pass sent a bolt of pure pleasure through you. "There it is. Right there."

He did it again, and again, a slow, deliberate rhythm designed to drive you to the brink of insanity. You buried your face in the pillow, your hands fisting in the sheets. The sounds you were making were no longer human; they were the soft, desperate cries of an animal in heat.

"You're soaking," he praised, his grip on your hips tightening. "Making such a mess for me."

You could feel your orgasm building, a tight, coiling pressure in your belly. You were so close, teetering on the edge. Just a little more, just a little—

And then he stopped.

You cried out in frustration, a broken, angry sound. He laughed softly, the sound a warm puff of air against your back.

"Not like that," he said. "I want to see you."

Before you could protest, he was flipping you over again, onto your back. He loomed over you, his wings spread wide, framing you in a spectacular display of fire and shadow. He looked down at you, his expression a mixture of raw desire and fierce possession.

"Get on top," he ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument.

He lay back on the bed, pulling you with him until you were straddling his hips. His cock was nestled between your slick folds, the heat of him branding your skin. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart through his chest where your hands rested.

"That's it," he encouraged, his hands coming to rest on your thighs, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there. "Take what you want."

You looked down at him, at the man who was both your ruin and your salvation. His golden eyes were dark, burning with an intensity that was both terrifying and exhilarating. You saw the trust there, the surrender. He was giving you the control, letting you set the pace.

You rose up on your knees, positioning him at your entrance. You held his gaze as you slowly, deliberately sank down on him, taking him inch by delicious inch. The feeling of him filling you, stretching you, was even more intense from this angle. You could feel every ridge, every vein of him as you bottomed out, your hips flush with his.

A collective, shuddering sigh escaped both of you.

"Fuck," he breathed, his hands tightening on your thighs. "You feel… incredible."

You started to move, a slow, rolling grind of your hips. You set the pace, a languid, sensual rhythm that was all about pleasure, not frenzy. You rose and fell, your movements fluid and natural, your body taking over where your words failed you. You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, the movement changing the angle, making him hit that perfect spot inside you again.

"Jesus," he gasped, his head thrown back, the cords in his neck standing out. His wings fluttered restlessly against the mattress. "Just like that. Don't stop."

You obeyed, increasing your pace, your movements becoming more confident, more demanding. The room was filled with the sounds of your pleasure—the soft slap of skin, your breathy whimpers, his harsh groans. You were riding him, using him, chasing your own release with a single-minded focus.

His hands left your thighs, moving up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing against your sensitive nipples. "Look at you," he praised, his voice thick with awe. "So fucking beautiful. Taking your pleasure from me. So good for me."

His words, combined with the overwhelming sensations, sent you spiraling. The coil in your belly tightened, a hot, heavy pressure building and building until it finally snapped. A scream tore from your throat, a raw, primal sound of pure ecstasy as your orgasm washed over you, a blinding, all-consuming wave of pleasure. Your body shook, your inner walls clamping down on him, milking him as wave after wave of release washed through you.

"Come on, baby," he urged, his hands gripping your hips, holding you still as he thrust up into you, his movements becoming frantic, erratic. "One more. Give me one more."

He shifted his hips, a small, subtle movement that sent a fresh jolt of pleasure through your overstimulated body. He was hitting a different spot now, a new, sensitive place. His thumb found your clit again, rubbing in fast, tight circles. The pleasure was almost painful in its intensity, a delicious ache that had you squirming on top of him.

"You can," he growled, his voice a low, dominant command. "I know you can. Come for me again."

And you did. It wasn't a blinding wave this time, but a deep, rolling series of spasms that ripped through you, a second, more powerful orgasm that left you boneless and trembling. As your body convulsed around him, he let out a guttural groan, his own release tearing through him. He buried himself deep, his hips jerking as he emptied himself inside you, the heat of him a final, intimate claim.

You collapsed against his chest, your body limp and sated, your heart hammering against his. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, one of his wings coming over to drape across your back like a warm, heavy blanket. You lay there, tangled together, your breathing slowly returning to normal, the only sounds the rain outside and the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.

[acrimson-embrace]

The Island

GN Reader x Trafalgar Law

Based on anon request

Plot: A strange island traps Law and you in each other’s bodies.

The island was not on the map.

Law checked twice.

Fog pressed around the Polar Tang, thick enough to blur the horizon, but not enough to hide the island ahead.

Black trees. Pale shore. No birds.

The log pose spun uselessly.

Bepo’s ears flattened. “Captain, I don’t like it.”

Law folded the map and slid it into his coat. “Neither do I.”

You stood beside the hatch, watching the island through the fog. The air felt wrong.

Law glanced back.

“You’re coming with me.”

Your stomach gave a small, inconvenient twist.

You ignored it. You were very good at ignoring things around Trafalgar Law.

“Yes, Captain.”

Bepo stepped forward. “Captain, I can go.”

“No.” Law adjusted Kikoku against his shoulder. “Stay with the Tang. If the current shifts, get us out.”

Bepo wilted. “Aye, Captain.”

You climbed into the small boat after Law. The moment it left the side of the Polar Tang, the fog swallowed the crew’s voices.

The oars made no sound in the water.

You looked over the side. The boat moved, but the sea did not ripple.

Law noticed too. His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

Law stepped onto shore first. You followed.

The island was worse up close. Salt marked the trees well past the shoreline. Shells were stuck in the bark, and shallow pools sat between the roots.

Near one of the trees stood an old wooden sign.

WHAT THE HEART BURIES, THE SOUL MUST CARRY.

Law stared at the sign.

“That’s comforting,” you said quietly.

“It’s a warning.”

“I figured that out, thanks.”

His gaze shifted to you.

You looked away first.

The two of you moved past the sign and into the trees.

Fog gathered around your ankles. The pools reflected things wrong. One showed Law behind you when he was still ahead. Another showed your reflection turning before you moved.

Your next step caught on a root.

Law’s hand closed around your wrist before you could fall.

It was quick. Practical. Nothing more.

Your pulse still jumped.

His fingers stayed there for half a second too long.

Then he released you. “Watch your feet.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Somewhere deeper in the trees, a voice whispered.

Your voice.

“Don’t leave yet.”

You stopped.

Law stopped too.

His expression did not change, but his hand shifted closer to Kikoku.

“You heard that?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“It sounded like me.”

“I know.”

You waited for him to say more.

He didn’t.

Law crouched beside one of the pools, studying the surface without touching it.

The water was perfectly still.

Then it darkened.

The fog moved between the trees, and another whisper came.

This time, it used Law’s voice.

“Please look at me.”

Law’s head snapped up.

Your breath caught.

Neither of you spoke.

Then the ground tilted.

You reached for him.

Law reached for you.

Your fingers touched.

The pool flashed white.

You hit the ground hard.

For a moment, there was only cold stone beneath your back. Then you opened your eyes.

And saw yourself standing over you.

Your own face looked down at you with Law’s expression.

Flat. Controlled. Already angry.

“Don’t panic,” your body said in Law’s voice.

You screamed.

Unfortunately, the scream came out of Law’s mouth.

Your hands flew to your throat.

Not your throat.

His throat.

Your fingers hit tattooed skin. Your sleeves were yellow. His coat hung heavy around your shoulders. Kikoku lay beside you, far too close to your leg.

You looked down.

Long legs. Open coat. Spotted hat fallen near your hand.

“Oh no.”

Law, in your body, closed his eyes.

It was alarming how much like himself he still looked while wearing your face.

“Don’t,” he said.

“That’s my face.”

“Yes.”

“You’re using my face.”

“I noticed.”

You grabbed your own cheeks.

Law caught your wrists with your hands. “Let go.”

You froze.

The touch was wrong enough to make your thoughts scatter.

You yanked back and nearly tripped over Law’s coat.

Law reached for you automatically, then stopped halfway.

Both of you stared at each other.

Your hand lifted to Law’s chest before you caught yourself. “Did you do this?”

His expression from your face sharpened. “No.”

“Your Devil Fruit swaps people.”

“My Devil Fruit does not do this by accident.”

“You said that very quickly.”

“Because it is true.”

You looked down at yourself. At his coat, his hands, the sword beside you.

Then you looked back at him.

Law’s mouth flattened.

Coming from your face, it was deeply unsettling.

“Stand up,” he said.

You tried.

It was harder than expected.

Law’s body was taller, heavier, differently balanced. Kikoku dragged at your side. The coat caught under your hand. You got one foot beneath you, pushed up too quickly, and lurched forward.

Law caught you again.

With your body.

For one brief, horrible second, you were pressed against yourself.

You both stepped back at the same time.

Law looked away first.

“Careful,” he said.

You adjusted his coat. “I’m trying.”

He turned toward the trees, then stopped.

You watched him take three steps in your body.

Not badly, exactly.

But wrong.

His shoulders were too stiff. His stride was too long and had to correct itself. Your hands stayed close to his sides as if he did not know what to do with them. He held your face in a blank, controlled expression that looked nothing like you.

“We need to get back to the ship.”

The path back was gone.

Where there should have been a trail, there were three reflective pools and a wall of fog.

You lifted Law’s hand.

Law stepped toward you. “Don’t.”

“ROOM.”

The blue sphere burst outward.

For one second, relief hit you.

Then it lurched.

The sphere warped sideways, clipped through the trees, and snapped back so hard your knees nearly gave out. A sharp pain shot behind your eyes.

Law caught you by the front of his own coat.

You blinked down at him.

Or at yourself.

Everything felt wrong.

“I told you,” Law said.

You pressed a hand to his temple. “That was awful.”

“Yes.”

“You do that on purpose?”

“Correctly.”

The fog moved around you.

Law’s grip tightened on your coat before he released it.

“Do not try again,” he said.

You swallowed, still feeling the pressure behind his eyes. “I wasn’t planning to.”

Your voice whispered from somewhere nearby.

“You’re tired.”

A pool beside you rippled.

You looked down.

In the water, you saw Law asleep at his desk.

Not peacefully. Folded forward over medical notes, one hand still holding a pen. His shoulders were tense even in sleep.

You stood in the doorway with a cup of tea. You watched him for a long moment. Then you crossed the room quietly, set the tea beside his papers, and left.

The image vanished.

You looked atLaw.

He was staring at the pool.

“You saw that,” you said.

“Yes.”

Your face went hot.

His face.

Either way, awful.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I was.”

You looked at him. Law’s expression stayed carefully neutral.

“You never said anything.”

“No.”

His gaze stayed on the pool.

“I didn’t know what to say.”

His heart kicked hard inside your chest.

No.

Inside his chest.

Your hand lifted instinctively, pressing against his sternum.

The fog shifted again. Another pool shimmered. This time, the water showed the infirmary.

You sat on the edge of the examination table while Law bandaged your hand. His fingers moved carefully over your skin. Your reflection looked down at his hands.

Law’s reflection looked at your face. He stopped himself from saying something.

The pool went still.

Law turned away.

You heard his voice in the fog.

“Stay.”

The word was barely there.

Not an order.

A wish.

You swallowed.

“The sign,” you said.

Law did not answer.

“What the heart buries,” you continued, quieter now. “The soul carries.”

“I remember.”

“What does it want from us?”

His silence answered before he did.

Finally, Law said, “An admission.”

Your chest tightened.

Your voice whispered from behind you.

“Say it.”

Law’s voice answered from somewhere ahead.

“I can’t.”

You stopped breathing.

Law went still.

A pool opened beside his foot.

He did not look down.

You did.

You saw yourself leaving the infirmary late at night. Law stood behind his desk, one hand half-raised, mouth slightly open.

He said nothing.

You left.

After the door closed, he lowered his hand.

The pool darkened.

You looked up.

Law’s expression was unreadable.

But you were in his body.

You could feel what he was hiding.

His pulse was not steady.

It was fast.

“Law.”

He did not answer.

You took one step toward him.

His pulse jumped.

You felt it before you could stop yourself from noticing. A hard, quick beat under your ribs. His body reacting before he could cover it.

Law saw your face change.

“Don’t,” he said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to.”

You looked down at his chest, then back at him.

“It happens when I get close.”

Law’s jaw flexed.

The fog went still around you. You stepped closer again, slower this time.

His breath caught. Only enough for you to feel it.

Your voice dropped. “I thought I was the only one.”

Law looked away.

That was answer enough.

Law’s hand pressed briefly against your stomach, as if he had felt the nervous twist there and hated knowing what it meant.

You froze.

His eyes lifted to yours.

“You’re not calm either,” he said.

The words were quiet. Not accusing.

You looked away first. “No.”

The fog shifted around you, waiting.

“No,” you said again, softer. “I’m not.”

Law did not move.

You forced yourself to look at him. “I worry about you.”

His mouth tightened.

“Not just because you’re my captain.”

Law’s gaze dropped for a moment, then returned to yours.

“I noticed,” he said.

“The tea?”

“That.” His voice stayed controlled, but barely. “And the way you stay too late. The way you look away when I catch you looking.”

Your breath caught.

He felt that too. You saw it in the slight change of your own face.

Law looked down briefly.

“I do it too,” he said.

The admission was small. It still hit like something breaking open.

The fog thinned, but did not disappear. You understood then. It wanted the rest.

You stepped closer. Law’s pulse jumped again beneath your ribs.

You said his name.

His eyes lifted.

“I care about you,” you said. “Not the way I’m supposed to.”

For a moment, Law looked like he might still refuse. Like he might force the words back down by habit alone. Then his hand lifted and closed around your wrist.

Your wrist.

His hand.

Both wrong.

Both right.

“I know,” he said.

Your throat tightened.

Then, quieter, he added, “I care about you too.”

The fog pulled back slowly, like the island had finally heard enough.

The island released them.

The ground dropped out beneath your feet. Your vision flashed white. Then you stumbled forward in your own body.

Your own knees.

Your own hands.

Law caught you.

His body was his again, solid and close, and when you looked up, his face was above yours.

His real face.

You grabbed the front of his shirt before either of you could step back.

Law looked at your hand.

Then at your face.

He kissed you.

It was careful for only the first second.

His hand slid from your waist to your back and pulled you hard against him. His mouth opened over yours, the kiss turning deep almost at once. You felt the breath he took when you kissed him back.

You broke away just enough to breathe.

His forehead rested against yours.

The fog had thinned around you. Through the trees, the shoreline was visible again. The boat waited where you had left it. Beyond that, the Polar Tang sat in calm water.

As if nothing had happened.

His eyes dropped to your mouth again.

You breathed, “Law.”

He kissed you once more, shorter this time, but enough to make your knees feel unreliable.

Then he drew back with visible effort.

“We’ve been gone too long,” he said.

You nodded.

The walk back to shore was quiet. Halfway there, Law reached back.

He did not look at you.

He simply opened his hand.

You took it.

When the two of you reached the boat, the fog had lifted enough for the Polar Tang to come back into view.

“Captain!” Bepo called, voice cracking with relief. “You’re back!”

Penguin leaned beside him. “You both disappeared!”

Shachi cupped his hands around his mouth. “We couldn’t even see the shore!”

Law helped you into the boat first.

Then he climbed in after you, his hand briefly touching your back to steady you.

The crew was still shouting questions from the Tang.

“What happened?” Bepo called.

Law took the oars.

You looked at him.

He looked back at you.

His expression was calm again, controlled in the way everyone expected from him.

Bepo made a worried sound. “Was it dangerous?”

Law’s eyes flicked to you.

This time, the faintest curve touched his mouth.

“Extremely.”

[thepensivekunoichi]

A Piece of Ordinary

Pairing: Law x female!reader

Summary: Law had always believed that everything eventually disappeared. People, places, memories. Then he met you, and somehow, ordinary moments became the one thing he wanted to keep forever.

Word count: about 6200

A\N: I got carried away again, so a short museum date drabble turned into a 20+ page story 😅

Contains: fluff, established relationship, slice of life, soft Law, dork\nerd Law, gift-giving, museum date, bookstore date, protective Law, light humor, mild angst, hurt-to-comfort, mild emotional vulnerability, references to Law’s family.

After what had felt like an eternity spent beneath the sea, deprived of fresh air and warm sunlight for far too many weeks, the captain of the Heart Pirates finally decided it was time to replenish their supplies and allow the Log Pose to adjust to a new destination.

The island they chose to dock at was hardly famous. If anything, it seemed almost suspiciously ordinary. There was no Marine base, no bounty hunters prowling the streets, no sign of chaos waiting to erupt around the next corner. There were only cobbled streets lined with flowerbeds, quiet parks, fishermen arguing over the price of the morning’s catch, lively marketplaces, little bookshops, family-ran restaurants, and even a modest museum so thoroughly unremarkable that not even Law had ever come across a single mention of it in all the books and reports he had read.

He was dissatisfied with the place from the moment he laid eyes on it, and deeply suspicious in the particular way only a professional grouch could be.

“There’s is absolutely no way a place like this actually exists.”

You laughed.

“What? Disappointed?”

He looked at you through narrowed eyes.

“I’m waiting to find out what the catch is.”

There wasn’t one.

No hidden trick. No elaborate scheme. No sinister twist waiting to reveal itself.

Nothing at all.

“Oh, Your Majesty, King of Optimism, Captain Positivity,” you teased, patting him lightly on the shoulder, “places like this do exist. There are countless islands where life is just… normal. I visited plenty of them before I joined the crew. Try relaxing for once.”

He stiffened beneath your touch before forcing himself to relax again, though the suspicion never quite left his expression.

You and your impossible ability to believe the world would simply behave itself, he thought.

The Heart Pirates scattered almost the moment they stepped ashore. 

Bepo discovered a local bakery overflowing with pastries, both old favorites and entirely new ones he insisted he simply had to sample before meeting up with Shachi and Penguin at the marketplace to hunt down the freshest fish they could find.

Ikkaku wandered off toward a boutique before settling at a nearby café, savoring the rare luxury of peace and quiet at a safe distance from her wonderfully unruly crewmates.

And, much to the Surgeon of Death’s annoyance, no one was chasing them.

No gunshots echoed through the streets, no rival pirates appeared on the horizon, and no one’s life was in immediate danger.

Law seemed almost personally offended by the very concept.

As though the island itself had orchestrated some grand deception.

Yes, peaceful islands were not unheard of on the Grand Line, but they had never encountered one where he could truly lower his guard and blend in among the townspeople without expecting disaster to strike.

Something wasn’t right.

And so—for what he reminded himself several times was purely strategic reasoning—he decided he would have to keep an even closer eye on you than usual, lest his hopelessly trusting and infuriatingly kind crewmate managed to wander straight into trouble.

He found you exactly where he had expected to.

Inside the tiny local museum.

You were sitting on a bench in front of several large landscape paintings, quietly taking them in one by one.

Without a word, he sat beside you, nudging your shoulder gently before resting one hand on your knee.

Now that the two of you weren’t constantly surrounded by the crew, now that you were somewhere unfamiliar where no one knew either of you, he allowed himself this tiny gesture of affection.

It might have seemed insignificant to anyone else, yet between the two of you it carried a quiet intimacy neither of you took for granted.

Meeting his gaze from the corner of your eye, you smiled softly before resting your head against his shoulder—if only for a fleeting moment—and threading your fingers through his, your thumb absentmindedly tracing the black letters tattooed across his fingers.

A… T… H…

A pleasant warmth crept slowly from the base of Law’s neck to the tips of his ears.

Life aboard the Polar Tang offered remarkably little privacy, yet it also offered the perfect excuse for your closeness. The submarine was, after all, exactly that… a submarine.

Space was limited, everyone spent most of their time together, and you often worked alongside the captain anyway, helping him sort through medical journals, reports, books, and endless stacks of paperwork.

As far as the crew was concerned, nothing had changed.

No one had noticed that somewhere between long nights spent researching and quiet conversations over coffee, the relationship between the Heart Pirates’ beloved strategist and the Surgeon of Death had become something altogether different.

It wasn’t as though the two of you had been together for very long.

Still, companionship had blossomed so naturally into love that neither of you had truly noticed where one had ended and the other had begun. If anything, Law had probably recognized the truth long after it had already become obvious, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge what he privately considered a thoroughly inconvenient development.

By the time he finally admitted it to himself, the matter had already been settled beyond dispute, cemented by trust, unwavering loyalty, and a quiet certainty neither of you questioned.

Praised for his brilliance since childhood, the gifted doctor had never learned how to express his emotions, least of all in front of other people.

Every gentle touch, every instinctive act of affection, every overwhelming wave of warmth that filled his chest whenever you were near felt entirely unfamiliar, as though his rational mind and his heart had spent years speaking different languages without ever learning how to meet halfway.

It was difficult enough for him to understand how the two of you had found each other in the first place, how fate had smiled upon him for what felt like the first time in his life and somehow allowed things to unfold so naturally between you, at least as naturally as one could reasonably expect from a hopelessly reserved surgeon.

The rest of the crew didn’t need to know.

He had no desire to announce it to them.

Not because he expected endless teasing, nor because he was desperately trying to hide your relationship. Simply because there was no reason for them to know.

If they weren’t perceptive enough to notice the subtle changes in their captain’s behavior, then frankly, they didn’t deserve the answer.

It wasn’t any of their business.

Better to enjoy the peace while it lasted.

God only knew how insufferable they would become once they figured it out.

As the two of you wandered through the museum’s modest collection of paintings, the spoiled child disguised as a distinguished pirate captain began complaining that he was bored.

“This is a waste of time.”

He practically pouted as you moved from one painting to the next, occasionally bumping your shoulder or giving your sleeve an impatient tug in a none-too-subtle attempt to hurry you along.

Rolling your eyes, you gently peeled his arm from around your waist, only for it to reappear around your shoulders a heartbeat later. With no other visitors nearby, he seemed determined to take full advantage of the rare privacy.

“If you’re that bored,” you sighed, unable to suppress a smile, “go sit down somewhere and wait for me. Or go find Bepo and the others.”

Law huffed dramatically, puffing out his cheeks in quiet protest.

“As if. It would be irresponsible to leave one crew member unattended during reconnaissance.”

You laughed under your breath.

“Reconnaissance? Law, we’re inside the museum of what has to be the quietest little town on the entire Grand Line. Are you worried that the oil paint is secretly a portal to a Marine base? Or that this portrait of a little girl with her puppy is about to fire a chunk of Seastone at you before the terrifying museum curators reveal themselves as Marines in disguise?”

He rolled his eyes, though he would sooner die than admit that the corner of his mouth had twitched upward.

“You’re far too relaxed. Anything could happen.”

You met his gaze without wavering.

“And you’re far too uptight. If we combined our personalities, we’d probably create the perfect human being.”

You slipped your fingers between his and gently tugged him toward the next gallery.

“Besides,” you added over your shoulder, “I’m fairly confident we could handle whatever obstacle this sleepy little town manages to throw our way.”

He clicked his tongue in mock annoyance, though he made no effort to pull away as your fingers laced together.

“Now come with me. I found a section of the permanent exhibition that’s perfect for an insufferable nerd like you.”

He sighed with theatrical resignation and rolled his eyes once more.

Even so, he let you drag him along.

The next room was devoted entirely to antique coins, a quiet little paradise for lovers of numismatics.

And, more importantly, for your hopelessly nerdy boyfriend.

Law’s expression remained as unreadable as ever, yet, as always, his eyes betrayed him. They brightened almost imperceptibly, as though someone had quietly lit a pair of stars behind them.

My adorable little nerd.

He wandered from one display case to the next, studying coins from different eras through the glass with increasing concentration. Curious, you leaned against his shoulder to see what had managed to capture his attention so completely.

It was nothing more than a small, worn silver coin.

The plaque beneath it contained barely three short sentences.

“It looks exactly like all the others.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It absolutely does.”

Law sighed with the weary resignation of a man confronted by profound ignorance, even if that ignorance happened to belong to his favorite person in the world.

“No. Look at the edges.”

You leaned closer.

“I don’t see anything.”

“The wear pattern.”

“...The what?”

“The wear pattern.”

He pointed toward one side of the coin.

“See? This edge is smoother.”

You nodded thoughtfully, squinting at the coin as though greater concentration might suddenly reveal whatever miracle your brilliant, beautiful boyfriend was seeing.

It didn’t.

Law glanced at you.

Then back at the coin.

Then at you again.

And suddenly you recognized that look.

The one he wore whenever someone asked him a medical question.

The one that meant you were about to receive a lecture whether you had asked for one or not, delivered with varying degrees of insufferable smugness and academic pretension. To give him credit, he always made an effort to tone it down for you.

“Coins aren’t interesting because they’re valuable,” he began, his attention already drifting back to the display. “Most people focus on the metal or the rarity. That’s the least interesting part.”

“Then what’s the interesting part?”

“The people.”

He nodded toward the coin.

“Someone carried this around for years. Maybe decades. It passed through hundreds of hands. Thousands, depending on how long it stayed in circulation.”

His voice had softened without him noticing.

“The merchant who minted it is dead. The ruler whose face was stamped into the metal is dead. The people who spent it are dead. The country that produced it may not even exist anymore.”

There was an unmistakable spark in his voice now, the kind that surfaced only rarely—a quiet passion that few people ever had the privilege of seeing from the captain.

His fingertip tapped lightly against the glass.

“But the coin remains.”

Even the pieces that had spent a century at the bottom of the sea fascinated your boyfriend without measure.

And he fascinated you.

Many were scarred by time. Corroded. Their details worn nearly smooth.

Yet your captain regarded every worn edge and faded engraving with quiet admiration, and somehow it felt as though he were sharing something deeply personal with you.

This had become about far more than the exhibit.

Slowly, you began to understand his fascination with things that should have disappeared long ago, yet somehow endured. Things that bore every scar time had left upon them and still survived to tell their story.

Impossible as it seemed, your heart somehow found even more room for tenderness toward the tall surgeon standing beside you.

You nudged his shoulder.

“Giant nerd.”

Law looked genuinely offended.

“I’m not a nerd.”

“You’ve been talking about coins for twenty-three minutes.”

“Twenty-one,” he corrected automatically.

A second later he realized what he’d done, cleared his throat with all the dignity he could salvage, and continued as though nothing had happened.

“I’m merely trying to convey the importance of numismatics in a world that’s constantly changing.”

Smiling, you slipped your hand into his.

“You are. And I love listening to you whenever you get carried away like this.”

A faint blush crept onto his cheeks.

Without letting go of your hand, he muttered,

“I don’t get carried away.”

You simply rolled your eyes and let him guide you toward the next display of coins, already certain you were about to hear the complete history of their circulation, the role they had played in the World Government’s propaganda, and the economic significance of the era in which they had been minted.

You weren’t disappointed.

Even after the two of you finally left what was undeniably his favorite section of any museum and returned to the paintings, sculptures, and historical artifacts, he remained in that wonderfully animated mood you had grown so fond of since joining the Heart Pirates.

He stopped to read every single plaque.

Every description.

Every historical note.

Even those detailing centuries-old farming tools, weapons, and household objects that held little interest for you.

He rarely strayed far from your side, absentmindedly keeping a hand around your waist, on your sleeve, or intertwined with yours as though he had forgotten he was doing it.

You bit back every teasing remark that came to mind.

You knew perfectly well that the moment you pointed it out, he’d stop immediately.

Instead, you chose to quietly treasure these rare moments of clinginess he unknowingly allowed himself.

A few galleries later, you found him standing before an exhibit dedicated to early medicine.

Ancient surgical instruments rested beneath polished glass beside faded ceramic jars that had once held herbal remedies.

Law had already begun reading every label.

"This would've been used to treat infections," he murmured, almost to himself. "Though it was eventually replaced by—"

Before long he was explaining not only what each remedy had been prescribed for, but what physicians had eventually discovered to be more effective.

For someone who had spent the better part of the afternoon insisting that seventeen flower paintings had nearly destroyed his sanity…

“There were six,” you reminded him.

“…six flower paintings,” he amended without missing a beat.

“…you were still being dramatic.”

“…I wasn’t.”

…he seemed to be having an awfully good time.

You could see it in the way his eyes lingered over each exhibit, in the ease with which he spoke whenever something genuinely interested him.

Then he stopped in front of a series of anatomical sketches and his expression softened.

For the briefest moment, he wasn’t the captain of the notorious Heart Pirates.

He was simply an endlessly curious doctor.

The boy who had once dreamed of becoming a physician like his father.

The man Corazon had believed he could become.

When he noticed you watching him, he immediately composed himself.

“These diagrams are inaccurate.”

“Of course they are.”

“See here?” he said, already pointing toward one of the illustrations. “This mistake was fairly common because artists relied on animal dissections for centuries. The liver can’t have multiple lobes like this.”

He let out the faintest amused huff.

“And the uterus is often illustrated as…”

He continued explaining while you were too busy watching him.

The smile on your face refused to leave.

My sweet, giant nerd.

When the two of you left the museum and made your way back toward town, planning to stop somewhere for lunch before you indulged in a little shopping, Law walked either a step ahead of you or on the side closest to the street, positioning himself where he could react immediately should anything suspicious happen in this impossibly peaceful little town.

Which, paradoxically, made him all the more uneasy.

Then, out of nowhere, an elderly fisherman rounded the corner and bumped straight into him.

“Oh! Sorry, son,” the man said with an apologetic smile and a slight bow before continuing on his way as though nothing had happened.

No fear.

No flicker of recognition.

Nothing.

Law actually turned to watch the man disappear into the crowd down the street.

He’s undercover, he concluded, narrowing his eyes. Has to be.

You couldn’t help laughing.

He shot you a look that was meant to be annoyed, though beneath it was little more than a pout because you refused to take him seriously.

For Law, the interaction felt almost surreal.

No one had looked at him and saw a bounty poster.

No one had looked at him and seen the infamous Surgeon of Death, the pirate who had delivered one hundred hearts to the Marines in exchange for the title of Warlord. Back when that title had still belonged to him.

Here, he was simply another man passing through town.

It was a feeling he could scarcely remember, not since he had still had a family of his own. Strange as it was, the unfamiliar normalcy filled him with an equal measure of discomfort and quiet longing.

If that ordinary life existed…

…he found himself wishing, almost despite himself, that you would be part of it.

Before settling down at a café, where Law immediately spotted Penguin and Shachi laughing loudly enough to be heard from halfway down the street, took one look at them, and silently decided to keep walking, the two of you ducked into the little bookshop on the corner.

You wandered leisurely through the shelves, browsing beautifully bound editions, notebooks, fountain pens, and small souvenirs before finding yourself hopelessly torn between two antique editions of your favorite novel.

Just as Law collected coins from every place he visited, you had your own delightfully nerdy tradition.

Whenever the crew reached a new island, you searched for another edition of your favorite book to add to your growing collection.

Law lingered nearby, pretending not to care while secretly watching you deliberate.

He failed spectacularly.

The shopkeeper smiled warmly as she noticed your indecision.

“You could always ask your husband what he thinks.”

Law froze.

The woman had already moved on to another customer before either of you could respond.

Your boyfriend, meanwhile, looked as though someone had struck him square in the chest with a cannonball.

Or informed him that every issue of Sora, Warrior of the Sea had been permanently discontinued.

“Did she just…?”

The tips of his ears turned the exact shade of poppies.

“T-That’s ridiculous.”

You simply continued comparing the books while he suddenly became intensely fascinated by a nearby shelf.

A moment later he leaned over your shoulder, gently plucked one of the editions from your hands, and examined it with surprising seriousness.

“This one is much nicer,” he decided. “The navy cover with the silver embossing reflects both the tone of the story and the psychological state of its characters much better.”

Before you could even answer, he had already walked to the counter with the book.

“Oh,” the bookseller smiled as she rang it up. “Has your wife finally made up her mind? Or did you help her decide?”

Law visibly bristled for the briefest instant.

Then something unexpectedly gentle flickered behind his golden eyes.

Contentment.

Perhaps even… pride.

If anyone had been paying close enough attention, they might even have sworn the corners of his mouth lifted.

“Yes,” he replied after clearing his throat.

Then, not without a trace of quiet satisfaction, he added,

“I usually have to give her a little push.”

After the Surgeon of Death once again insisted on steering you away from the rest of the Heart Pirates, despite your increasingly dramatic protests that your body would soon enter a medically critical state without its recommended daily intake of caffeine and sugar…

“Really?” he deadpanned. “And which highly qualified physician issued that recommendation? Would that happen to be… you?”

…the two of you eventually found yourselves strolling along the small harbor.

"Stop pouting," he said, taking your hand. "There's another bakery a little farther down. Or a café. You can satisfy your sugar addiction there."

You continued staring stubbornly ahead, cheeks puffed in exaggerated indignation after being denied coffee for the third time by your cruel, tyrannical doctor.

You refused to dignify him with a response.

Law sighed.

“Don’t be a brat.”

Then, after a brief pause, his voice softened.

“Here.”

He lifted your hand and brushed a kiss across your knuckles.

Then your palm.

Then your wrist.

Your heart stumbled unexpectedly.

You swallowed hard, trying not to let your emotions show, though a faint blush spread warmly across your cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured almost too quietly to hear, looking at you through lowered lashes with those familiar golden eyes.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

“I’m not upset,” you smiled. “I’m just hungry.”

He looked at you with unmistakable fondness.

Then a child’s cry shattered the moment.

A little girl had tripped while running along the waterfront and now sat on the pavement surrounded by several equally panicked friends, fresh tears streaming down her face as she stared at her badly scraped knees.

You had barely begun to step forward before Law moved first.

Doctor's instincts, he would insist later, using the same excuse he always reached for whenever he was caught doing something kind.

He crouched beside the little girl and attempted a few awkward words of reassurance, which, judging by the volume of her crying, achieved absolutely nothing.

By the time he reached for her injured knee to examine it, she had escalated into full-blown panic.

“I-It hurts! Help me!”

Law looked up at you with an expression that silently pleaded for rescue.

Kneeling beside them, you gently stroked the girl’s hair.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart," you said warmly. "He’s a doctor. There isn’t anyone better to help you than him.”

The little girl calmed almost immediately.

Almost.

"And I promise, he's a very good one," you reassured her.

She tensed again as the two of you carried her over to a nearby fountain to rinse the scrapes clean.

“So,” Law began in the calm, measured tone he reserved for patients, “first we clean the wound. Clean running water is ideal, like we’re using now. Before that, of course, your hands should always be disinfected.”

As he spoke, he carefully adjusted the pressure of the water while you held the little girl steady.

By now, she was listening.

“Next comes antibiotic ointment,” he continued, never quite meeting anyone's eyes as he concentrated on his work. “It may sting a little, but it will help prevent infection.”

The moment his fingers brushed the scrape, the little girl squeezed your hand tightly as you rubbed soothing circles over her back.

Then she leaned toward you and whispered in the wonderfully unsubtle way only children could.

“Why does he have such scary tattoos?”

You laughed.

“Him?” you whispered back conspiratorially. “They’re just part of his disguise. Otherwise everyone would realize what a softie he really is.”

The little girl giggled.

Law shot you an unimpressed glance over her head.

Which only made the two of you laugh harder.

By the time he finished wrapping the bandages, she had almost forgotten she’d been crying.

She took a few cautious steps, wobbling dramatically like a soldier returning from battle.

Both you and Law watched with poorly concealed amusement.

Then one of her friends called her name.

Miraculously cured, she broke into a full sprint.

Halfway across the square she turned around, cupped her hands around her mouth, and shouted,

“Thank you, Mister! Thank you, Missus!”

Then she waved enthusiastically before racing off again.

Law watched her disappear for several long moments.

There was something almost unbearably ordinary about all of this.

No desperate chase.

No terrified civilians running from the notorious pirate standing in front of them.

Just a scraped knee.

An afternoon spent helping because someone needed it.

The kind of insignificant, everyday moment he had almost forgotten people were allowed to have.

He looked over at you, took your hand again, and started walking.

“What a little actress,” he muttered with a quiet snort. “Did you see how fast she ran the second her friends called?”

A beat passed and he gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

“And stop telling people I’m a softie.”

He glanced sideways at you.

“It's unbecoming of a captain.”

At long last, after an entire day spent avoiding the crew and your relentless attempts to convince him to stop somewhere for coffee, the two of you finally settled in the garden of a charming little café run by an equally charming, endlessly talkative elderly woman, the sort who somehow seemed to know half the island by name.

While you flipped through the menu in search of something sweet, eyeing buttery croissants and every cream-filled pastry your boyfriend dismissed with open contempt as “just bread in disguise,” Law ordered onigiri without a second glance.

He shot you a look of pure medical disapproval when you completed your order with an alarmingly large mug of coffee, while he, in sharp contrast, took an unhurried sip of his green tea.

“How can you eat that much sugar?” he clicked his tongue, sounding less judgmental than genuinely compelled to lecture you. “You’re addicted. You think that’s what your body needs, but what you actually need is a balanced intake of protein, healthy fats, and complex carbohydrates.”

You rolled your eyes and stuck your tongue out at him.

“You’re boring.”

Then, just to make your point perfectly clear, you ordered a warm chocolate soufflé accompanied by vanilla ice cream, explaining that it would serve as dessert after your sweet meal.

Or rather dessert alongside dessert.

A breeze drifted in from the sea, carrying the scent of salt and gently lifting a few loose strands of your hair. It also carried your familiar, comforting fragrance to him.

Something tightened pleasantly around Law’s heart.

He found himself wondering how many years he would get to spend nagging you about things like this.

He imagined years filled with little moments exactly like this—years in which he would continue scolding you over your diet, continue reminding you to sleep more, drink more water, stop skipping meals, stop stealing caffeine in quantities no reasonable person should consume.

Hopefully forever.

Not only about those things, either.

About everything.

His long fingers wrapped gently around your hand, lifting it onto the table as he absentmindedly played with each of your fingers, tracing their shape as though committing them to memory.

You smiled, and the sight, still his favorite after all this time, made him raise your hand to his lips and press a lingering kiss against your knuckles.

“What a lovely wife you’ve got.”

The elderly owner had returned, carefully setting down your dessert and Law’s meal as if she’d merely commented on the weather.

Law nearly choked on absolutely nothing.

Across the table, you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

“You’re a lucky young man,” she continued, blissfully unaware that the infamous Surgeon of Death had turned every conceivable shade of pink.

His mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened it once more like a fish gasping for air.

“N-No… she’s not my…”

The words never came.

He realized there was absolutely no point trying to explain.

The old woman simply patted his shoulder before gently pinching his burning cheek, completely oblivious to the horrified look in his usually composed golden eyes.

“Take good care of her. Girls like that don’t come around often.”

Then she wandered off as though nothing unusual had happened.

For most people, nothing had.

Unfortunately for the world’s grumpiest doctor, he was very far from most people.

You couldn't hold it in anymore.

Laughter bubbled out of you before you had any chance of stopping it.

As Law listened to it, something strangely familiar stirred within him.

It was like hearing a melody he could have sworn he’d known once, long ago. One he’d forgotten somewhere along the way, buried beneath years of grief and survival. As though it had spent his entire life trying to reach the surface of his battered soul, only now finally breaking through.

“That’s right,” you teased between giggles, reaching across the table to give his flushed cheek a gentle pinch of your own before leaning in to kiss it. “Better make sure I don’t run away.”

Law let out something suspiciously close to a growl, unable to escape either his embarrassment or the situation. Crimson from ears to neck, he merely tightened his grip on your hand before leaning fully into your side.

His palm came to rest against your cheek.

Then, gathering every ounce of tenderness he possessed, despite how thoroughly “humiliated” he would later claim he’d been, he kissed you.

I wouldn’t let you go for anything in this world.

For the rest of the day, Law behaved differently, however subtle the change might have appeared to anyone else.

He walked just a little closer than usual, his shoulder brushing yours whenever the streets narrowed. Every so often his hand found yours for only a heartbeat before slipping away again, or his fingers grazed your waist as though reassuring himself you were still there.

Whenever the streets became crowded, he instinctively guided you around the busiest parts without a word.

And every time he spotted one of the Heart Pirates in the distance, he silenced them with a single look that clearly said:

Not today.

He already knew they’d make him pay for this later with relentless teasing.

After completing one last leisurely walk around the harbor, he stopped at an ice cream stand and, entirely of his own accord, bought you both a few scoops.

As though it were something he’d done a hundred times before.

As though this had always been your life together.

As though the two of you belonged not aboard a submarine endlessly sailing through the unpredictable Grand Line, but inside a quiet routine where afternoons like this simply… happened.

He knew, of course, that once you returned to the Polar Tang he would carve out moments like these whenever he could, however small they had to be, even if you insisted the two of you already had plenty of them.

Still, one quiet part of him mourned the fact that he couldn't devote every day to things like this.

Aimless walks.

Coffee dates.

Ice cream melting faster than either of you could eat it.

Bookshops.

Lazy afternoons with nowhere particular to be.

Long conversations unhurried by the next battle or the next destination.

Your hand finding his almost unconsciously.

Most people called moments like these ordinary because they believed there would always be another tomorrow filled with more of them.

Law had never possessed that luxury.

Perhaps that was why he already knew, somewhere deep inside himself, that if life ever granted him the unimaginable gift of letting days like these become routine, he would never allow himself to mistake them for something guaranteed.

Every single one would remain a gift.

Never an expectation.

Especially with you.

To bring your wonderfully ordinary day in the most ordinary little town imaginable to a close, the Surgeon of Death and his favorite person climbed the grassy hill overlooking the harbor, where the Polar Tang waited patiently offshore.

The town lights slowly flickered to life, bathing everything in warm gold and amber.

It felt like an evening borrowed from someone else’s life.

Something that had never really belonged to either of you.

Something temporary.

“It was nice pretending to be normal,” you said quietly, your voice carrying the faintest trace of melancholy. “I’m just happy you got to rest, even if only for a little while. Places like this are so rare.”

Law remained silent for a long time, his eyes fixed on the submarine in the distance.

“I wasn’t pretending.”

You looked at him.

He still hadn’t taken his eyes off the horizon.

“Maybe expecting a normal life isn’t realistic,” he murmured after a thoughtful pause. “Maybe that part wasn’t real because people like us aren’t promised ordinary.”

Only then did he turn to face you.

“But being here…”

He stepped closer until you could hear the hurried rhythm of his heartbeat answering your own.

“…beside you…”

His forehead rested lightly against yours.

“…that’s the most natural thing in the world.”

His voice dropped to almost a whisper.

“I don’t intend to spend a single day without our version of ordinary.”

When your lips finally met, the rest of the world quietly dissolved into nothingness.

Their hands found one another without urgency, moving instead with the fragile, trembling desperation of two people making a promise neither intended to break.

Even if time itself had stopped, Law didn’t think he could have pulled away.

By the time the Polar Tang had submerged once more and resumed its voyage beneath the sea, you were both back in his office, sorting through the paperwork you’d agreed—largely thanks to your insistence—to leave for tomorrow instead of working yourselves into the middle of the night.

You were stacking tomorrow’s reports into neat piles when Law came to stand behind your chair, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“I have something for you.”

He placed an elegant engraved brass bookmark into your hands.

Its surface bore a beautifully detailed engraving of your favorite painting from the museum.

You let out a quiet breath as your fingertips traced the delicate lines.

“It’s beautiful…”

“You always fold the corners of your pages,” your resident nuisance pointed out.

“I do not!”

“…You absolutely do.”

“I use whatever happens to be nearby.”

“I noticed.”

He looked unbearably pleased with himself, both for winning the argument and for making you smile.

You kissed his cheek.

“Thank you. I loved that painting.”

“I gathered as much,” he teased, a faint blush already dusting his cheeks. “You stood in front of it for nearly forty minutes.”

You laughed before wrapping your arms around his neck and peppering his cheek with several quick kisses.

“I love it.”

Then your eyes brightened.

“I have something for you, too.”

Law blinked in surprise as you placed a small decorated box into his hands.

When he opened it, his throat tightened.

Resting inside was a beautifully minted commemorative coin depicting the very episode from the town's history that had fascinated him most during your visit.

He turned it slowly between his fingers, thumb running instinctively along its worn edge, quietly overwhelmed that you’d noticed something so small, so deeply personal.

Not only had you remembered his strange fascination with coins…

You had honored it.

A hobby everyone else had spent years teasing him for, filing it away with all his other odd little obsessions.

What did I ever do to deserve you?

Several quiet minutes passed before Law finally spoke.

Perhaps the greatest gift he could offer in return wasn’t another object.

It was himself.

“My father bought me my first coin.”

You looked up immediately without saying a word.

“It wasn’t particularly valuable,” he continued softly. “Just an old coin from a market in Flevance. I kept asking questions about it, so he told me that if I wanted answers… I should start collecting them.”

A faint smile touched his lips, fragile enough that it almost disappeared before it fully formed.

“He used to tell me every coin had already lived an entire life before it reached my hand.”

His fingers intertwined with yours.

“After that, every time he returned from one of his business trips, he’d bring me another coin from wherever he’d been. That’s how the collection began.”

His gaze drifted somewhere far beyond the cabin walls.

“It eventually became a habit. A part of me.”

He fell silent again.

“Another invisible thread connecting me to my father, to my family and to everything I lost.”

He lowered your hand to his lips, kissing it once.

Then again.

And again.

“I’ve never added someone else’s coin to my collection.”

His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles.

“Until yours.”

Silence settled between you, warm and unhurried.

As the two of you made half-hearted attempts to finally call it a night, disentangling intertwined hands and hopelessly tousled hair proved far more difficult than either of you pretended.

As Law drew your lips to his once more, slow and impossibly tender, he found himself grateful—to the universe, to fate, to whatever force governed a world as cruel and chaotic as this one—that even amidst endless voyages, battles, and uncertainty, he had somehow been granted moments like these to share with you.

Selfishly, he hoped for countless more.

After so many years spent carrying grief that had hollowed him from within, his soul had finally found something capable of soothing it, something gentle enough to make him believe that happiness might not be a privilege reserved for other people after all.

You.

My little piece of peace lives in the depths of your eyes, in the sound of your voice, and in the smile that brightens your face.

I swear I’ll protect it until my very last breath.

[dollymingo]

late night snack | vinsmoke sanji x f!reader

when midnight craving hit, perhaps sanji's kitchen chores can wait.

tags : 18+, nsfw, established relationship, soft dom sanji, or pathetic sanji, kitchen sex, masturbation, spit, , oral sex (f!receiving)

a/n : can’t believe we’ve reached 1k . thank you so much u guys, for your kindness and support ♡

☆ masterlist ★

The kitchen was usually a sanctuary of quiet efficiency after midnight for Sanji. He was in his element, meticulously wiping down the counters as he hummed a quiet tune under his breath. 

When the heavy wooden door creaked open, he didn’t even need to look up to know it was you. The shift in the room's energy, the soft patter of bare feet against the floorboards, was enough to make his heart skip a beat.

He glanced over his shoulder, a soft smile instantly gracing his lips as he saw you standing in the doorway, rubbing your eyes, looking small and still half-asleep. Your curls slightly flattened from sleep, a few soft coils spilling freely around your face as you stood there, clothes hanging loosely on your frame as if you had been gently pulled out of a dream. You looked unfairly beautiful in Sanji's eyes, the kind of beauty that made his chest tighten without warning. 

“You should be in bed, my love,” he murmured, a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. "The night air is cold, and a beautiful creature like you needs their rest. Go back to the bedroom." 

You didn’t move. Instead, you crossed your arms over your chest, a heavy, exaggerated pout settling on your face as you leaned against the doorframe. “I can't sleep,” you said, your voice thick with exhaustion and a distinct note of frustration.

Sanji’s expression softened instantly, his protective instincts kicking. He tossed the towel onto the counter and turned to face you fully, wiping his hands on his apron. “Do you want me to make you some tea perhaps? A little warm milk with honey to help you drift off?”

“Noo,” you whined, stretching out the word as you walked further into the kitchen, your eyes locked onto his. You stopped just a few feet away, looking at him with pure accusation. "I want my boyfriend in my bed.”

Sanji let out a breathless, weak laugh, his chest tightening at the sheer sweetness — and the agonizing temptation — of your words. He rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing a faint pink. He wanted nothing more than to scoop you up right then and there, carry you back to the dark warmth of your shared room, and hold you until morning. But the kitchen was a mess from Luffy's midnight raid, and if he didn't finish now, breakfast would be late.

“Don't tease, baby, I am almost done,” he pleaded softly, offering you a reassuring, apologetic smile. "Just give me ten more minutes to finish scrubbing this counter, and I'll be all yours."

Instead of going back to the room, you walked over to the long wooden dining table. With a slow, fluid motion, you climbed up and laid down on it lazily, propping your head up with one hand while stretching your legs out across the dark wood.

"Ten minutes is too long, Sanji," you sighed, tracing a mindless circle on the table. "It's so cold in that bed without you."

Sanji turned back to the counter, trying desperately to focus, but his heart was hammering against his ribs. "Really, hm? If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're trying to corrupt your hard-working cook."

"Maybe I am," you purred, shifting your weight, the fabric of your sleepwear rustling softly in the quiet room. "Or maybe I'm just thinking about what those hands of yours could be doing instead of holding a dish towel. You're so good with your hands, Sanji. It's a shame to waste them on countertops."

The cigarette between his lips flared bright orange. "Sweetheart, please," he groaned, his voice dropping an octave, a sudden wave of heat washing over his skin. "You have no idea how hard it is to stay over here right now."

Holding his gaze, you slowly slid your hand down your stomach, your fingers slipping effortlessly beneath the waistband of your panties.

Sanji completely froze. He couldn't take his eyes off you. He watched painfully frustrated, as the fabric of your underwear tented over your fingers. He looked so incredibly hot and bothered, his jaw tight and his chest heaving as his breathing turned shallow and ragged, already sounding like a complete mess. 

"Ah... god," Sanji choked out, setting his cigarette down safely and taking a heavy, helpless step toward the table. He looked absolutely ruined just by the sight of you, completely intoxicated by how effortlessly beautiful you were. "You are... you are absolutely perfect, my love. Look at you."

He leaned his hands on the edge of the table. He was transfixed, on the movement of your hand under the cotton fabric.

"You're so gorgeous like this," he whispered, his voice trembling with lust. But as he leaned in closer, desperate to touch you, you stopped him with a sharp look. 

"No," you whispered, your fingers dipping deeper into your panties, the friction producing a soft, wet sound that echoed loudly in the quiet kitchen.

You kept your eyes locked onto his, your hips rolling slightly against your own hand. You were punishing him. Punishing him for prioritizing his chores over you, for telling you to go back to bed instead of welcoming you into his arms the moment you walked through the door.

Sanji’s breath hitched. He took a desperate step forward, completely unable to focus on anything but the agonizingly beautiful sight of you taking care of yourself right in front of him.

"Ah—wait, please," he choked out. "Let me... please let me help you. You shouldn't have to do that yourself when I'm right here."

"I said no," you commanded. 

Sanji stepped closer anyway, desperate, his hands reaching out instinctively to touch your knees, to pry your legs further apart so he could finally bury his face between them. But as he leaned in, you raised your leg, pressing your  foot firmly against his chest, right over his racing heart, stopping him in his tracks.

"Stay there," you told him.

Sanji gasped, your resistance only fueling the fire in his blood. He didn't push your foot away. Instead, his hands came up to gently cup your ankle, and with an expression of pure devotion, he leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to the arch of your foot. He couldn't help himself. He was entirely at your mercy already, begging with his eyes as you continued to finger yourself, rubbing over your soaking wet clit under his worshipful gaze.

You let out a plaintive whimper, and it breaks his heart. You slid two fingers deep inside your tight folds, tracing your sensitive walls while your thumb frantically worked your swollen nub. "Mean Sanji," you complained, your voice breaking into a breathless, irritated pout. "I can't reach it. It’s your fault. It's all your fault."

Sanji looked up at you from where he was held at bay, his eyes blown wide with desperation. "My fault? Tell me how to fix it, please—"

"If you had been a good boy," you gasped, arching your back off the wooden table. "If you had just taken care of me from the start, I'd let you touch me. But you weren't. So now I can't even focus."

The words good boy seemed to snap something deep inside him. Sanji dropped heavily to his knees before the table, his hands gripping the wood. "Please," he begged you, "please, let me do it. Let me fix it. Don't punish me like this, I'll do anything. Just let me make you come, please, my love."

Instead of answering him, you reached up with your free hand and slid it under your top, cupping your own breast. You squeezed it, rolling your nipple between your fingers, letting out a soft, needy moan that made Sanji's knees go weak. 

"Sanji..." you sighed his name out loud, but your tone wasn't an invitation, it was a reprimand. You kept pumping your fingers inside yourself, your hips rolling against your hand. "You're such a bad boyfriend. Leaving me all alone in that cold bed while you worry about your kitchen.”

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, my love," Sanji begged, his hand instinctively dropping down to grasp his own crotch, grinding his throbbing length into his palm right through his trousers. He let out a loud, ragged groan. "I'll be better, I swear. Just let me touch you. Look at how beautiful you are... you're absolutely perfect, driving me entirely insane.”

You didn’t acknowledge his begging once again and instead, you slowly hooked your index finger under the elastic band of your panties and slid the fabric completely to the side. You parted your thighs wider, showing your swollen folds to him. Your pussy was dripping, completely soaked, with your own thick cream coating your fingers. 

Sanji let out a pathetic whimper at the sight, his eyes blowing wide with pure desperation. “Fuck so wet… so gorgeous. God, please, let me clean you up.”

Finally, you stopped your fingers, pulling them out with a wet pop. You looked down at his ruined form. “Come closer,” you whispered. 

Sanji moved forward like a starving man, his face hovering just inches from your pussy, his lips parted as he panted heavily, and you plunged your fingers soaked in your juices, into his mouth. His tongue tickles your fingers as he moans.

When you remove your fingers, you lean down slightly, and deliberately spit directly into his waiting mouth. Sanji swallowed it instantly, his throat bobbing as he whimpered, a dark flush spreading across his cheeks. You leaned down further, reaching out to fist your fingers tightly into his soft blond hair. You tugged firmly, before you dragged his face down exactly where you wanted it. 

Instead of letting him touch your bare skin yet, you pressed his mouth flush against the damp fabric of your panties, keeping your hand tangled firmly in his hair. He immediately began kissing you right through the cloth, his hot breath soaking into the material. “Taste how wet you made me through my clothes.”

Sanji whimpered loudly, his hands gripping the edges of the table so hard the wood groaned. "Please... yes, my love, anything," he choked out, completely drunk on you.

"Good boy. Now kiss the lace. Lick it clean," you murmured, pushing his face back down.

He didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second. He began to worship you exactly the way you demanded, tracing the damp outline of your pussy through the fabric with the flat of his tongue. He groaned into your lap, the deep, vibrating sound rumbling right against your sensitive core, making your own hips twitch. You pulled his hair again, directing his mouth to the soaked center, commanding him to suck the wet cotton until he was completely drenched in your scent. 

Only when you were completely satisfied by his work, you slowly slide  the fabric down to your legs, with his little help. “Now, make me cum baby.”

Sanji didn’t waste another second, driven entirely mad by the taste of your juice, and buried his face directly into your soaking wet pussy. 

He didn't just touch you, he devoured you. He slammed his mouth against your clit, his tongue sweeping over your sensitive opening in long, heavy, greedy strokes. He spread your soaking wet lips wide with his thumbs, forcing his tongue deep inside your creaming hole, mimicking the motion of a hard fuck before pulling back to suck your engorged clit into his mouth. He swirled his tongue around it, biting gently until you were screaming. Every loud whine and sob that left your lips was met with a deeper press of his mouth, swallowing down every single drop of your sweet juices as you creamed directly onto his face.

But as he swallowed your sweetness, as your frantic essence coated his tongue and lips, something in Sanji began to shift. The taste of you was too intoxicating, making him utterly drunk. The hunger didn't fade, it grew stronger and more demanding. The gentle, compliant cook was fading away, replaced by something much more dominant. 

He caught your hips, pinning you flat against the hard wooden table. When he pulled his face away, his lips were slick and shining, his gaze dark and heavy under his blond bangs. 

"You're so cruel to me," Sanji whispered, his voice suddenly smooth, not begging anymore. "Making me wait. Making me watch. You've been a very bad girl, ruining my kitchen like this."

Before you could even process the sudden switch in his demeanor, Sanji hooked your legs over his broad shoulders. His large hand reached down, quickly unzipping his trousers and freeing his thick cock, already leaking heavy pre-cum. He didn’t wait a single second and aligned his aching head directly against your soaking little hole, and drove into you, his head carving a place for itself inside you. 

You moan as your fingers tangled into his shirt, your body already overwhelmed by the thick stretch of his head. You were completely ruined by it, and so was he. Sanji let out a loud groan, his chest heaving as he stared down at you. 

He pinned your hands above your head against the table, his grip firm and possessive, yet his lips still pressed soft kisses along your jaw and neck.

He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear as his hips gave a slow, testing shove. "Look at you, already so tight for me,” he murmured. "You wanted your boyfriend in your bed, sweetheart?.” He laughed under his breath. "You've got me now. Let's see what happens when you play with me.”

[junovae]

— SUMMER ISNT OVER YET . . . ! ⋆ K.B.

synopsis you are now in Fiji, ready to step into the Love Island Villa as a bombshell. Will you find a true connection, or will you be voted off and leave the island single and vulnerable?

starring:

— bombshell!reader: your role is simple, shake up the couples and don’t be afraid to step on any toes. It’s only the first week, so couples are fresh and people are ready to explore.

— OGislander!bakugo: him and his couple are still unexclusive and open to exploring, and he's certainly open to exploring with you.

content warning:fem!reader, kissing, summer love, slight angst, hurt/comfort, cuddling, conflicted feelings, Love Island USA!au, interactive, ONGOING

introduction

WEEK 1

001 — 3.2k

002 — tba

TAGLIST :: open

@aubrey0206 @m3rmaidandf1sh

2026 © junovae, do not plagiarize!

[softcanonchaos]

♡ Heat Wave ♡

♡ Pairing: Hawks (Keigo Takami) x Reader

♡ Summary:

After years of relying on heat suppressants, your doctor refuses to renew your prescription, forcing you to face the one thing you’ve spent years avoiding.

Desperate, you turn to the black market for one last dose—only to get caught by the Number Two Hero himself.

Instead of arresting you, Hawks offers something far more unexpected: a safe place to stay… and an offer only another avian-type could truly understand.

⸻

🚫 Warnings:

✦ 18+ / MDNI

✦ Smut

✦ Avian!Reader

✦ Heat Cycle AU

✦ Winged Reader

✦ Explicit Sexual Content

✦ Mature Themes

✦ Oral (F Receiving)

✦ Comfort & Care

✦ Protective Hawks

✦ Emotional Vulnerability

✦ Medical Discussion (Heat Suppressants)

✦ Black Market Mention

✦ Mild Angst

✦ Fluff

📝Word Count: 6,8k+

♡ Author’s Note:

I definitely need therapy. 💀😅

Please don’t question me because I honestly don’t have a good explanation for this one. 😂

Hope you enjoy. 🫶

——————

The afternoon sun glinted off Hawks' crimson feathers as he soared over Musutafu's bustling streets, a familiar, comforting weight against the wind. Below, the city was a tapestry of motion and sound—cars honking, people rushing, the distant wail of a siren that wasn't for him. He loved the view from up here, the god-like perspective that let him see the intricate dance of ordinary lives without getting tangled in them. It was cleaner. Easier.

His patrol route was a well-worn groove in his mind, a sequence of rooftops and intersections he could navigate half-asleep. But something, or rather someone, snagged his attention today. Tucked into the outdoor seating of a trendy cafe, a small group of women laughed around a table, their conversation a bright, inaudible murmur beneath the city's hum. Most of them were unremarkable, but one… one made him pull up short, hovering silently in the sky like a painted hawk on a wire.

It was her wings.

They weren't like his, the broad, powerful raptor appendages built for speed and devastating force. These were different. Smaller, more delicate, arching from her back in soft, elegant curves. They shimmered with an almost pearlescent white, the individual feathers catching the light like mother-of-pearl. They folded neatly against her chair, a stark, beautiful contrast to the dark wood. Angelic. That was the word that sprang to mind, unbidden.

He knew every active hero with a wing-type Quirk, and he made it his business to know the up-and-comers at the commission. He’d never seen her before. More than that, he would have remembered. The sheer rarity of someone else born with natural wings, a kindred spirit in a world of Quirks that so often aped flight with clumsy machinery or mutant mishaps, was a statistical anomaly he couldn't ignore. She wasn't in a hero costume, just a simple summer dress that showed off toned shoulders. A civilian. A beautiful, intriguing civilian with wings that could make the heavens themselves weep with envy.

A grin, sharp and genuine, split his face. Well, now. The day just got a hell of a lot more interesting.

He folded his own wings and dropped, a controlled, silent plummet that ended with a soft tap of his boots on the pavement a few feet from her table. The sudden appearance of the Number Two Hero sent a ripple of excitement through the other patrons. Phones came out, whispers escalated. The woman with the angel wings flinched, her head snapping up, her wide, startled eyes locking onto his.

Her friends erupted, a flurry of "Oh my god, it's Hawks!" and "Can we get a picture?"

He gave them his signature lazy wink, the one that looked easy but was calculated to disarm. "Ladies. Enjoying the sunshine?"

He kept his gaze, however, fixed on the one who mattered. She was trying to make herself small, her wings twitching involuntarily, pulling in tighter against her back. There was fear there, and a deep, weary annoyance that piqued his curiosity even more. Most people were star-struck. She looked like he'd just ruined her lunch break.

"Sorry to bother you," he said, pitching his voice low enough for only her table to hear. "Couldn't help but notice your… assets." He gestured with a casual flick of his chin toward her wings. "Rare to see a pair like those. I'm Hawks."

He held out a hand, a polite invitation she looked at like it was a snake.

One of her friends, a bubbly blonde, nudged her. "Y/N, say something!"

So that was her name. Y/N. It suited her. He watched her throat work as she swallowed, her gaze darting from his outstretched hand to his face and back again. Finally, with what looked like immense reluctance, she placed her fingers in his. Her touch was light, hesitant, her skin cool. "I know who you are," she murmured, her voice softer than he expected. "And thanks."

She pulled her hand back as if burned. Her wings rustled, a soft, shushing sound.

"You're not a hero," he stated, more an observation than a question.

"No."

"Civilian. Good for you." He flashed another smile, this one a little less polished. "Never seen you around before. Your wings… they're incredible. You keep them hidden?"

The directness made her flinch again. A protective wall slammed down behind her eyes. "I don't like the attention."

"Can't blame you there," he said easily, leaning a shoulder against the railing that separated the patio from the sidewalk. "Gets old. But still. Must be a hassle, right? The… maintenance."

It was a delicate way of asking. The molting, the preening, the aches, the strain of keeping them folded for hours. And the other thing. The thing no one liked to talk about.

Her friends were now staring, their conversation forgotten. The silence at the table was thick with Y/N's discomfort. She picked at a loose thread on her napkin. "It's manageable."

The single word was a dismissal. Clear. Unarguable. Hawks knew when to push and when to retreat. He'd gotten what he came for—a name, a face, and the confirmation of a mystery he intended to solve. He could see the tension in the set of her shoulders, the way her wings were pressed so flat against her back they looked bruised.

"Alright then," he said, pushing off the railing. "Don't let me keep you from your lunch. Nice to meet you, Y/N."

He gave a two-fingered salute to the rest of the table, eliciting another round of giggles, and launched himself back into the air. The upward rush of wind was a familiar thrill, but his mind was already replaying the image of her: the wariness in her eyes, the almost painful tightness of her posture, and those impossible, beautiful wings hidden from the world. Why hide something so magnificent? He didn't know, but he had a feeling it was a story worth hearing. And Takami Keigo always got the story he wanted. He banked, catching a thermal to gain altitude, a new thread added to the web of the city, and he, for now, content to watch from afar.

***

Three days later, you sat in the sterile, unforgiving glare of Dr. Satomi's office, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. The familiar scent of antiseptic and paper did nothing to calm you. Your wings, usually a source of quiet pride even when hidden, felt like a dead weight of dread pinned to your back.

"Absolutely not." Dr. Satomi's voice was firm, her expression unyielding behind her spectacles. She slid the small, empty pill bottle back across the polished desk. "Y/N, we've been over this. You've been on these suppressants for four years consecutively. The strain on your system is becoming untenable."

"But they work," you pleaded, your voice thin. "I can't… I can't go through it. Not again."

The 'it' was a week of living hell. A heat cycle that transformed you from a composed, independent woman into a trembling, lust-addled creature ruled by instinct. The memory of your last natural heat, four years ago before you'd found a doctor willing to prescribe long-term blockers, was a nightmare of sweating, shaking, aching need. Days where you couldn't think, couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, your body a furnace of desire for release you were too ashamed to seek. You never wanted to feel that loss of control again. Ever.

"They're 'working' by putting your body into a state of constant, low-grade chemical warfare," Dr. Satomi countered, her tone softening slightly. "Your hormonal levels are a mess. I've flagged your last three blood tests. The commission is already asking questions. And I'm telling you, as your physician, if you push this off again, the next one will be worse. More painful, and significantly longer. Your body is building up a resistance. A backlash is coming, whether you like it or not. It's safer, healthier, to let it run its course now, under supervision."

Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through your chest. "So that's it? You're just… cutting me off?"

"For your own good, yes. I'm writing you a prescription for nutritional supplements and mild pain relievers. I recommend you take the next week off work, prepare your home, and let nature take its course. I repeat, you cannot take another blocker."

You left the office in a daze, the prescription paper feeling like a death sentence in your clammy hand. You didn't even make it to the pharmacy. The thought of that week alone, helpless and consumed by fever, was unbearable. Shame warred with a primal, desperate fear. You had to find another way.

The thought was ugly, a dark seed sprouting in the fertile ground of your panic. The black market. You'd heard whispers, of course. Other avian-types, those whose quirks came with inconvenient, messy biological imperatives, talked about it in hushed online forums. Unregulated, dangerous, and expensive. But it was an option.

That evening, huddled in the warm glow of your computer monitors, you dove into the seedy underbelly of the hero-support web. It took hours of navigating encrypted chats and vague code words, but finally, you found it. An anonymous seller, promising 'premium pharmaceutical-grade heat suppressants, no questions asked'. The price churned in your gut, but a week of that particular suffering was worse than any financial blow. You contacted the seller. An address materialized on your screen: a discrete-looking alley tucked behind a 24-hour laundromat in one of the city's grimmer districts. The meeting was set for midnight.

Relief, bitter and hollow, flooded you. You pushed aside the nagging guilt and the fear of what you were doing. It was survival. That's all.

Meanwhile, high in a glass-walled office at the Hero Public Safety Commission, Hawks wasn't looking at the city. He was looking at a screen, at data streams compiled from months of meticulous investigation. Operation: Nest Egg, he'd privately dubbed it. A crackdown on the very same black market you were about to visit. The Commission was concerned about unregulated Quirk-altering drugs falling into villain hands, but Hawks had a more personal interest. These drugs were killing people, or ruining them from the inside out. He'd seen the aftermath.

"Got a bite," his sidekick's voice crackled in his earpiece. "Level-3 buyer. Paid a hefty sum for a single-dose blocker. Meeting point is the old laundromat on 6th. Midnight."

"Roger that," Hawks murmured, a predatory gleam in his golden eyes. "I'll handle it personally. This feels bigger than a level-3 buyer if they're paying that much. Might be our lead to the source."

The next night, the air in the alley was thick with the smell of damp lint and stale cigarette smoke. You pulled your thin jacket tighter, the fabric doing little to ward off the creeping chill. Your wings were folded so tightly they ached, a physical manifestation of your anxiety. Every shadow seemed to move, every distant footfall sounded like a trap springing. This was a mistake. A stupid, reckless mistake. But the memory of the heat, of your body not belonging to you, was stronger. You pressed onward.

A figure detached itself from the deeper shadows near the overflowing dumpster. Tall, broad, nondescript. You couldn't make out their face beneath the brim of a low hat.

"You have the payment?" The voice was a low rasp.

You nodded, extending a trembling hand with the thick envelope of cash.

"Good." They took it, thumbed through it with unnerving speed, and then produced a small, amber plastic vial. "Pleasure doing business."

The transaction was sickeningly fast. You clutched the vial, a tiny, precious lifeline. As you turned to flee, a crimson feather whispered through the air, impossibly fast. It didn't strike you, but the seller. A sharp yelp of pain, and the man staggered, dropping a bag from his shoulder. More feathers swarmed in, a blizzard of sharpened steel, pinning his clothes to the brick wall with surgical precision, trapping him.

You froze, your blood turning to ice. From the rooftop above, a silhouette dropped into the alley, landing with an unnerving lack of sound. The streetlights caught the flash of red wings.

"Commission business," Hawks' voice rang out, calm and authoritative. "You're under arrest for illegal distribution of controlled substances."

The seller was swearing, struggling against the feather-pins. But you couldn't focus on him. Your gaze was locked on Hawks as he turned from his catch, those sharp, intelligent eyes finding yours in the gloom. A flicker of recognition. Then surprise. And then something harder, something colder, that made your stomach drop.

"Well, well," he said, his voice losing its public-facing cheer and taking on a private, dangerous edge. He walked toward you, slow and deliberate. "Graphic Designer Y/N. What a coincidence."

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. The damning little vial felt like a block of lead in your sweaty palm. Shame, hot and suffocating, washed over you. You were just another statistic to him. Another desperate idiot.

He stopped a few feet away, his presence overwhelming. He glanced down at the vial, then back to your terrified face. "You know," he said, his tone quiet, almost gentle, which was somehow worse, "the stuff they cut this with? It can cause nerve damage. Permanent paralysis in the extremities. I've seen it." He gestured vaguely with a hand. "Feathers, wings… things like that. Makes them useless. All for what? A week of discomfort?"

"It's not discomfort," you finally managed to choke out, the words torn from a raw place in your throat. "You don't understand."

"Then explain it," he challenged, his golden eyes boring into you. "Because from where I'm standing, you're trading your entire career, maybe your ability to fly, for a shady pill in a dark alley. That sounds like a pretty bad deal to me."

You couldn't. You couldn't explain the suffocating helplessness, the way your mind fractured under the weight of instinct, the primal humiliation of it. You just shook your head, clutching the vial tighter. "Please."

His expression softened by a fraction. He saw the genuine panic, the absolute terror in your eyes. He let out a slow breath, with a flick of his wrist, one of the feathers pinning the seller zipped back to his hand. He stepped closer, so close you could feel the warmth radiating from him. Before you could react, he deftly plucked the vial from your grasp.

"Hey!" you cried out, a desperate surge of adrenaline making you bold. "Give it back!"

He held it up between two fingers, examining it under the dim light. "No. This is evidence. And you," he looked at you, and the disappointment in his gaze was a physical blow, "you're coming with me. We're going to have a talk."

He didn't touch you. He didn't have to. His sidekicks arrived a moment later to cart away the sputtering seller. Hawks simply gestured with his head toward the mouth of the alley. "Let's go."

You followed him in a numb trance, your wings dragging behind you like broken things. The flight to his agency was a blur of wind and city lights. You didn't speak. You just wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hold the pieces of your composure together. He flew with one arm wrapped securely around your waist, a grip that was firm but not bruising. It was the only point of contact, and it felt both like an anchor and a brand.

His penthouse apartment atop the agency building was exactly what you'd expect: sleek, modern, minimal, with a breathtaking floor-to-ceiling window that showcased the entire city. It was beautiful, impersonal, and made you feel even more out of place.

He let you go near the large sofa, and you immediately sank into it, curling into yourself. He stood by the window for a long moment, a silent, imposing figure against the glittering skyline.

"You do this every year?" he asked, his back to you. "Take the black market stuff?"

"No," you whispered. "This was the first time."

He turned around, his face unreadable. "So what happened? Your doctor cut you off?"

You just nodded, staring at a spot on the polished floor.

He sighed, running a hand through his messy blond hair. "Y/N. The Commission takes this seriously. So do I. People who sell this garbage are the lowest of the low. They prey on desperation." He walked over and sat in the armchair opposite you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "The stuff in that vial could have done a lot more than just block your heat. It could have stopped your wings from regrowing feathers after a molt. It could have caused tremors so bad you'd never be able to hold a pen again. Your job as a graphic designer? Gone."

The list of horrors washed over you, each one a sharp knife twisting in your gut. You hadn't known. You hadn't let yourself think.

"I didn't… I couldn't…" You stammered, tears finally breaking free and scalding your cheeks. "I can't lose control like that."

He was quiet, letting you cry. It wasn't a sympathetic silence; it was a considering one. He was watching you, analyzing. It made your skin crawl.

"Lose control of what?" he finally pressed. "What happens?"

The shame was so thick you could taste it. You couldn't tell the Number Two Hero that for a week, you became a slave to a biological urge so powerful it made you want to beg any warm body to fuck you senseless. You couldn't tell him how you'd spent your last heat huddled in a cold shower, weeping from the agonizing need that wouldn't go away.

"Nothing," you lied weakly. "It's just… painful. And inconvenient."

A humorless smile touched his lips. "Try again. I'm not an idiot, and neither is your doctor. She wouldn't risk her license and your health for something 'inconvenient'. The physiological response to an avian-type heat cycle is…" He paused, searching for the right word. "…intense. It's a mate-seeking imperative. It messes with your head. Makes you pliable. Desperate."

You flinched as if he'd struck you. He knew. Of course, he knew. He was one of you.

"And the blockers," he continued, his voice dropping into a more confidential register, "they don't just stop the physical symptoms. They numb everything. Dampen the instinct. Let you pretend it doesn't exist. But it does. It's always there, under the surface. And the longer you suppress it, the bigger the wave when it finally breaks."

He was describing exactly what you were afraid of. The tidal wave of need that was threatening to drown you. You hugged your knees to your chest, your wings trembling behind you.

"So what's your plan now, genius?" he asked, not unkindly. "You can't have the illegal stuff, and you're not getting a prescription. You're staring down the barrel of a heat cycle with no protection. And from what I can tell, you're not prepared to handle it."

You had no plan. Your plan was to go home, crawl into bed, and wait for the world to end. You just shook your head, the motion feeling pathetic and useless.

"Right." He stood up and paced over to the window. "Look, I'm not going to turn you in. This time. The seller is the real target. But you can't do this alone. The doctor was right about one thing: it's dangerous to let it run unchecked. You could hurt yourself. Dehydrate. Or worse."

"Worse?" you whispered, not sure you wanted to know.

"The instinct for a mate is strong," he said, his back still to you. "It doesn't care about logic or consent. It just sees an opportunity to… procreate. You might find yourself in a situation you can't get out of, with someone who won't listen when you say no later. Even if you were the one who initiated. The lines get blurry when your brain is boiling over with hormones."

A fresh wave of cold dread washed over you. That was your deepest fear. Not the pain, not the need itself, but the loss of self, the potential for making a irreversible, humiliating mistake.

"So what am I supposed to do?" you asked, your voice cracking.

He turned from the window, and the look on his face was unreadable. Calculating. It was the look he gave villains before a takedown. "There's another option. One that doesn't involve dangerous pills or a week of solitary misery."

You stared at him, confused. "What is it?"

He walked back toward you, stopping right in front of the sofa. He loomed over you, a shadow that blotted out the city lights. "I could help you."

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with implications. Your mind, already reeling from panic and shame, screeched to a halt. "Help me… how?"

His golden eyes held yours. "The heat isn't just about sex. It's about connection. Comfort. Safety. A partner to weather the storm with. Someone who understands the biology, who can provide the physical release the body craves without letting the situation get out of control. Someone strong enough to handle the… intensity."

You finally understood. The offer wasn't about pity. It wasn't even entirely about altruism. It was a practical, terrifying, and bizarrely logical solution. The Number Two Hero, offering to be your… what? Your heat partner?

"You can't be serious," you breathed, the words feeling foreign on your tongue.

"Never more," he said, his expression unchanging. "Think about it. No risky black market pills. No week of suffering alone. And most importantly, no danger of you ending up in a vulnerable position with some stranger who might hurt you. With me, it would be… controlled. Safe. We get through it, you get it out of your system, and in a week, you can go back to hating me for crashing your lunch date."

The last part was a dry attempt at humor, but it fell flat. Your mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. It was insane. It was reckless. It was… the sanest proposition you'd heard all day.

"Why?" you finally managed to ask. "Why would you do that? You don't even know me."

"Because I know what it's like," he said, the words quiet but resonant. "I was on blockers for years when I was starting out. The Commission wanted their 'perfect weapon' to be predictable. The first heat I had after coming off them… let's just say it wasn't pretty. I was lucky. I had options. Not everyone does. And I see you, Y/N. You're strong, but you're terrified. I'm offering to take the fear out of the equation."

The sincerity in his voice was disarming. He wasn't doing this to get laid; he'd mentioned he just finds some random for his own heats. This was different. This was a mission. A rescue. And you were the damsel in distress, a role you despised.

"You don't have to decide right now," he said, straightening up. "But the clock is ticking. I can feel it from here. Your temperature is already rising. Your scent is changing. You're probably what, a day, maybe two out?"

He was right. A low, persistent warmth had been blooming in your core for hours, the first sign of the impending fire. You'd dismissed it as anxiety, but now you knew better. He could probably sense the subtle shift in your pheromones, a language only other avian-types could truly understand.

"I'll give you some privacy," he said, walking toward the door that led to the rest of his apartment. "I'll have some food and water sent up. Think about my offer. The alternative is going home alone, right now, and trying to ride this out by yourself. And trust me," he paused with his hand on the doorknob, "you're not ready for that."

The door clicked shut, leaving you in the cavernous silence of the living room. You were trembling, a fine, uncontrollable shake that started in your wings and spread through your entire body. You hugged yourself tighter, the heat inside you growing, a slow, insidious burn. You looked around the sterile, beautiful apartment. This wasn't your home. He wasn't your friend. But he was right. You were utterly, terrifyingly unprepared to face this alone. The shame of your failure in the alley was a bitter pill, but the fear of what was coming was an poison. And Hawks, for all his cocky bravado and intimidating reputation, was offering the only antidote.

You buried your face in your knees, the fabric of your dress damp with your tears. You had a choice to make, and neither path led back to the quiet, controlled life you'd so carefully constructed.

***

You didn't know how long you sat there, a cocoon of misery and indecision, but eventually the click of the door drew you from your stupor. Hawks re-entered, carrying a tray. On it was a tall glass of water, a bowl of what looked like miso soup, and a small plate of onigiri. Simple, nourishing. Kind. He set it down on the coffee table in front of you without a word, then resumed his seat in the armchair.

You didn't move. You just watched him, your breath catching in your throat.

"Eat," he commanded gently. "You'll need the strength."

You ignored the food, your mind finally catching up to the gravity of the situation. "How would this even… work?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper. "Here? With you?"

"It's simple," he said, leaning back, sprawling in the chair with an easy grace that belied the tension in the room. "You stay here. With me. For the duration. We'll keep the windows closed, the scent blockers on full. You'll have the bedroom. I'll take the couch. When the… symptoms start to become unbearable, you come to me. Or I'll come to you. We'll take the edge off. No pressure, no expectations beyond what your body needs to get through the worst of it."

His frankness was disarming. He was describing a biological process, a shared ordeal, not a romantic encounter. It was clinical. Efficient. Which somehow made it both more terrifying and more acceptable.

"Take the edge off," you repeated, the words feeling clumsy on your tongue. "You make it sound so simple."

"It can be," he said. "The hard part is in your head. The embarrassment. The loss of control. We can skip all that. I know what's happening to you. I know what it feels like. There's nothing you could do or say that would shock me."

The heat inside you flared, a sudden, intense pulse that made you gasp. A faint, pleasant ache bloomed between your thighs. Your body was listening to him, responding to the proximity of a compatible, powerful mate. The primal word surfaced again, unbidden.

"Are you… in heat now?" he asked, his gaze sharpening. He could probably smell the shift in your pheromones, the chemical signal that your body was beginning its desperate broadcast.

You shook your head, your cheeks flaming. "Not yet. Soon. A day. Maybe less."

"Then you have your answer," he said softly. "You can't go home. You won't make it."

You looked from his unreadable face to the bowl of soup. The steam rising from it smelled comforting, safe. A small anchor in a stormy sea. Your pride screamed at you to refuse, to run, to face this on your own terms, no matter how painful. But a deeper, more instinctual part of you, the part you'd spent four years trying to suffocate with pills, knew he was right. It craved safety. It craved strength. And sitting across from you was the embodiment of both.

Slowly, your trembling fingers reached out and picked up one of the onigiri. You brought it to your lips and took a small bite. The rice was warm, the salty filling grounding. It was an acceptance. A surrender.

A slow smile spread across Hawks' face, but it wasn't triumphant. It was… relieved. "Good choice," he murmured.

He stood up. "Finish eating. Then I'll show you the room. You should rest. We've got a long week ahead of us."

***

The bedroom was as sleek and impersonal as the rest of the penthouse, dominated by a large, western-style bed with crisp, dark grey linens. The curtains were heavy, designed to block out the city. It was a sanctuary. A cage. You weren't sure which.

He didn't follow you in, just pointed toward the adjoining bathroom. "Towels, anything you need, should be in there. My clothes will probably be too big, but help yourself if you want something comfortable to sleep in. I'll be out here."

The door clicked shut, and you were alone. The silence was a roar in your ears. You stripped off your day-old clothes, the fabric feeling grimy and wrong against your flushed skin. After a quick, hot shower that did little to soothe the growing fire within, you found one of his t-shirts hanging in the closet. You pulled it on, the soft, worn cotton swallowing your frame, smelling faintly of him—clean air, something spicy, and the unique, musky scent of feathers.

You crawled into the vast bed, pulling the cool sheets up to your chin. Your wings ached to be spread, to be free, but you kept them tightly folded, a final, futile act of self-control. Sleep was a long time coming. You drifted in and out, your dreams a feverish collage of crimson feathers and golden eyes, the low hum of your own need a constant, thrumming undercurrent.

***

You woke to fire.

It wasn't a metaphor. The heat was a real, physical thing, a furnace blazing in your core that had sweat beading on your skin and soaking the sheets around you. The ache between your legs was no longer a dull throb; it was a demanding, insistent pulse, a clenching emptiness that begged to be filled. A soft, broken whimper escaped your lips.

It had started.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to breathe through it, but the air was thick, heavy. The scent of your own arousal was overwhelming, a sweet, desperate perfume that filled the room. Your wings twitched uncontrollably, the feathers ruffling as if trying to fan the flames. You felt raw, exposed, like an open nerve ending.

Another wave of heat, stronger this time, washed over you. You curled into a fetal position, your hands clenching into fists. You could do this. You could survive it. You just had to endure. You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper, focusing on the sharp pain as a distraction from the all-consuming need.

But your body was a traitor. It craved a solution it knew was just beyond that door. A strong, capable partner. A safe harbor. It craved Hawks.

The thought was so shameful it made you want to cry. You hated this. Hated him for seeing you like this, for offering this fucked-up, clinical solution that your body was so eagerly accepting. You hated yourself for needing it.

A particularly violent tremor wracked your frame, a shudder of pure, unadulterated want. It was too much. The ache was becoming a pain, a sharp, twisting agony deep inside you. You knew, with a sinking certainty, that you couldn't endure. Not alone.

With a sob of pure humiliation, you swung your legs out of bed. The t-shirt clung to your damp skin. You stood on shaking legs, your wings drooping behind you, heavy and useless. Every step toward the door was a battle. You reached for the handle, your fingers clumsy and slick with sweat.

The door was unlocked.

You pushed it open and stepped out into the dim living room. He wasn't on the couch. For a heart-stopping moment, you thought he'd left you, that this was all a cruel joke. Then you saw him.

He was standing by the massive window, looking out at the city. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of loose grey sweats that hung low on his hips. His back was to you, a smooth, expanse of golden skin crisscrossed with the faint, silvery lines of old scars. His wings were folded, a beautiful, lethal mantle of crimson and gold.

He must have heard your soft gasp. He turned, and the look on his face wasn't pity or triumph. It was understanding. A deep, quiet knowledge that made your throat ache.

"Hey," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Took you long enough."

He didn't move toward you, just waited. The control, the deliberate stillness, was a balm. It was exactly what your fraying nerves needed.

You couldn't speak. You just stood there, trembling, a single tear tracking a hot path down your cheek.

"It's alright," he said, taking a slow step forward. "Come here."

And you did. You walked toward him, each step an act of surrender. When you were a few feet away, you stopped, your gaze fixed on the floor, unable to meet his eyes. You were a mess. A disgusting, needy mess.

A gentle hand tilted your chin up. You were forced to look at him. His golden eyes were soft in the dim light, burning with an intensity that wasn't just lust. It was focus. Compassion.

"Let me help," he murmured. It wasn't a question.

He closed the remaining distance, and his hands came to rest on your waist. His touch was warm, firm, and it sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core. You gasped, your hands flying up to grip his biceps for support. His skin was hot, the muscles beneath hard as steel.

"Easy," he soothed, his thumbs stroking circles on the sensitive skin just above your hips. "Just breathe."

But breathing was impossible when his scent enveloped you—clean, masculine, with that wild, musky undertone of feather and sky that was uniquely him. It was like pouring gasoline on a fire. A low moan escaped your throat.

"That's it," he praised, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Don't fight it. Just feel."

One of his hands slid up your back, tracing the line of your spine until it reached the base of your wings. The touch was electric. You cried out, your body arching into him, your hips bucking forward instinctively. He was right. Fighting was useless. Your body had a mind of its own, and it wanted him.

"Sensitive here, huh?" he murmured, a hint of a smile in his voice. He gently traced the joints where your wings met your back, and your knees nearly buckled. A fresh wave of slickness flooded your core, the evidence of your undeniable need.

"So responsive," he breathed, his approval a heady rush. "Look at you. So beautiful."

His other hand moved from your waist, sliding down the front of your thigh. You tensed, but he didn't go for the most obvious place. Instead, he caressed your skin, learning the shape of you, his touch a slow, teasing exploration that was both torture and bliss. He was stoking the fire, building the pressure, and you were helpless to do anything but burn.

"Tell me what you need," he coaxed, his lips brushing against your ear. "Use your words."

You couldn't. Words were meaningless. The only thing that mattered was the throbbing emptiness inside you, the desperate craving for more. You whimpered, pressing your face against his chest, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

He chuckled, a low, vibrating sound that you felt through your entire body. "Okay. No words. I get it."

With a strength that was both thrilling and terrifying, he swept you off your feet. You yelped, your arms automatically wrapping around his neck. He carried you effortlessly toward the bedroom, your smaller wings fluttering in a useless, panicked rhythm. He laid you down on the bed, the cool sheets a shocking contrast against your feverish skin.

He didn't immediately join you. He stood by the bed, looking down at you. His gaze was heavy, possessive, but it wasn't cold. It was the look of a predator that had cornered its prey, and was in no hurry to devour it. He was savoring the moment. Savoring you.

"You're shaking," he observed, his voice soft.

You were. Tremors wracked your body, a combination of fear, shame, and overwhelming arousal. You felt exposed, vulnerable, laid bare under his intense scrutiny. You pulled the hem of the t-shirt down, a pathetic attempt at modesty.

"Don't," he commanded gently. "Don't hide from me. Let me see you."

Slowly, as if under a spell, your hands released the fabric. He reached down, his fingers hooking under the hem of the shirt. He paused, his eyes meeting yours, seeking permission. You gave a barely perceptible nod.

He lifted the shirt, pulling it over your head in one smooth motion. The cool air hit your bare skin, making your nipples pebble into hard, aching points. Your wings, finally free from the confinement of the fabric, unfurled slightly, their pearlescent feathers rustling. You'd always been self-conscious of them, of their size and shape, but the way Hawks looked at them, with a mixture of awe and desire, made a fresh wave of arousal wash over you.

"Perfect," he breathed. "Absolutely perfect."

He knelt on the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight. He leaned over you, bracing himself on his arms, caging you in. His crimson wings fanned out behind him, a breathtaking canopy that blocked out the dim light of the room. You were trapped. Sheltered.

You could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the raw, masculine scent of him. Your breath hitched. He was so close. So impossibly close. You tilted your head back, baring your throat, an instinctual sign of submission that you couldn't control.

A low growl rumbled in his chest. "So good for me," he praised, his lips trailing down the column of your throat. "So willing."

His touch was electric. Every kiss, every brush of his lips against your skin, sent a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. You were lost, adrift in a sea of sensation. Your hands came up to tangle in his hair, holding him to you, needing more.

He chuckled, a low, vibrating sound that made you shudder. "Patience, little bird. We have all week."

But patience was a luxury you no longer possessed. The ache inside you was a living thing, a beast that demanded to be fed. You arched your hips, a silent plea.

"I know," he soothed, his hand sliding down your stomach, his fingers tracing the waistband of your panties. "I know what you need."

He hooked his fingers under the fabric and slowly, torturously, slid them down your legs. The cool air hit your wet, swollen flesh, and you moaned. You were completely exposed to him, every inch of your desperate, needy body laid bare.

He spread your legs with a gentle but firm pressure, settling himself between them. He looked down at you, his golden eyes dark with a hunger that mirrored your own. He was taking his time, savoring the sight of you, and the sheer intensity of his gaze was almost enough to push you over the edge.

"You're so wet," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "All for me."

He lowered his head, and you felt the hot puff of his breath against your core. You tensed, anticipation coiling in your stomach like a spring. And then, he tasted you.

His tongue was a shock of wet heat against your sensitive flesh. You cried out, your back arching off the bed. He started with slow, deliberate licks, exploring your folds, learning your taste. He was teasing you, tormenting you, and you loved it.

"You taste like heaven," he growled, the vibrations of his voice sending shocks of pleasure through you. "Like a fucking dream."

He wrapped his arms around your thighs, holding you open for him, and then he dove in. His tongue found your clit, and he began to circle it with a firm, relentless pressure. The pleasure was overwhelming, a tidal wave that threatened to drown you. Your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands, holding him to you as you rode the wave.

"Don't stop," you begged, your voice a broken, breathy moan. "Please, don't stop."

"Never," he promised, his tongue flicking against your clit, again and again, pushing you higher and higher. "Come for me, little bird. Let go."

His words were your undoing. The coil of pleasure in your stomach snapped, and your orgasm crashed over you with the force of a tidal wave. You screamed his name, your body convulsing, your wings flaring wide in a spasm of pure, unadulterated bliss. It was a pleasure so intense it was almost pain, a release so complete it left you shaking and breathless.

He didn't stop. He lapped at your juices, prolonging your orgasm, drawing out every last drop of pleasure until you were a quivering, boneless mess. Only then did he raise his head, his chin glistening with your arousal. He looked up at you, a triumphant, predatory smirk on his face.

"That's one," he said, his voice a husky rumble. "Only about a hundred more to go."

***

[acrimson-embrace]

No Room for Jealousy?

GN Reader x Trafalgar Law

Based on anon request

Plot: Law uses shambles when he gets jealous.

You were near the bar with Ikkaku, laughing as she told you about Shachi getting swindled by a twelve-year-old earlier that afternoon.

“I wasn’t swindled,” Shachi shouted from the table.

“You paid two hundred berries for a rock,” Ikkaku called back.

“They said it was a local artifact!”

“It was a rock.”

You laughed into your cup.

A man beside you glanced over.

“You’ve got a nice laugh.”

You turned your head.

He was tall with a smile that had probably worked for him often enough to make him careless with it.

“Thanks,” you said politely.

He nodded toward your cup. “Can I buy the next one?”

“No, thank you.”

His smile did not fall. “Waiting for someone?”

You took another sip. “No.”

“Then one drink won’t hurt.”

At the table, something clicked.

A glass set down too hard.

“I said no,” you told him.

The man lifted both hands, still smiling. “Fair enough. Didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Good.”

He tilted his head. “Though if your friends are busy, I wouldn’t mind keeping you company.”

You felt the faint pull of Law’s power a half-second before it happened.

“Room.”

Your stomach dipped.

“Shambles.”

The tavern blurred.

You landed hard in someone’s lap.

A hand caught your hip.

A cup toppled.

Penguin yelped from the bar, now holding your drink.

You looked down.

Law looked up at you.

He had not moved from his chair. He sat exactly where he had been at the end of the table.

Except now you were sitting sideways across his lap.

His hand rested at your waist.

The entire Heart Pirate table went silent.

Then Shachi whispered, “Oh, this is bad.”

You stared at Law.

Law stared back.

Your heart slammed once, hard enough to annoy you.

“Captain,” you said.

“Yes?”

“Did you just Shambles me into your lap?”

Law looked past you toward the bar.

The man who had been talking to you was now standing beside Penguin.

“He was bothering you.”

“I had it handled.”

“I handled it faster.”

Your eyes narrowed. “That is not the point.”

“You landed safely.”

“In your lap.”

“It was the nearest open seat.”

“There are three open chairs.”

Across the table, Ikkaku pressed both hands over her mouth.

You could feel heat creeping up your neck.

Law’s face remained calm, but his fingers lightly traced up your side.

“You are unbelievable,” you said under your breath.

Law leaned back slightly, looking almost bored.

“You should be more aware of your surroundings.”

“My surroundings changed abruptly.”

Bepo made a faint distressed sound.

Shachi lost the battle and started laughing.

For one brief moment, something flickered across Law’s face.

Irritation, maybe.

Not with you.

With himself.

Law slowly removed his hand from your waist.

You stood, straightened your shirt, and picked up the drink Penguin had carried over with a wide, terrified grin.

“Thank you,” you told him.

Penguin nodded too quickly. “Of course.”

You looked back at Law.

He had gone back to his drink as if nothing had happened.

As if his ears were not slightly red beneath the brim of his hat.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

—————————————

After that, it became a problem.

Not a large problem.

Not a problem Law would admit existed.

But a problem.

If someone stood too close to you while helping unload cargo, Law would switch them with a crate.

If someone offered you a flower at a market, Law would switch the flower with a wrench.

If someone leaned in too close while asking for directions, you would suddenly find yourself six feet to the left, while Bepo appeared in your place looking deeply apologetic.

“I’m sorry,” Bepo would say to the stranger.

The stranger would blink.

Bepo would bow.

“I don’t know why I’m here either.”

The worst part was that Law never looked guilty.

Not once.

He always had an excuse.

“You were standing near an unstable stack of barrels.”

Or:

“That man was suspicious.”

Or:

“You were blocking my line of sight.”

You tried ignoring it.

The final straw came on a quiet evening three islands later.

The Polar Tang was docked for the night. Most of the crew had scattered, leaving you with a few others at an outdoor food stall.

Law was nearby, sitting at the far end of the stall.

You were listening to a local man who had been telling a genuinely funny story. You were laughing before you could stop yourself.

The man grinned at you.

“That smile. Been trying to get that all night.”

Oh no.

You felt it before you heard it.

That familiar pressure in the air.

The room forming.

You whipped your head toward Law.

“Don’t.”

Law’s fingers had already lifted.

His eyes met yours.

For one charged second, neither of you moved. Then his mouth flattened.

“Room.”

You pointed at him. “Trafalgar Law, I swear—”

“Shambles.”

The world snapped.

You landed behind the food stall with Law beside you.

Alone.

The noise of the others dulled behind the hanging canvas. The light barely reached here, leaving the two of you in a strip of shadow.

You stared at each other.

This time, there was no easy excuse.

Your pulse beat hard in your throat.

“You have got to stop doing that,” you said.

Law folded his arms. “He was flirting with you.”

You stepped closer. “And?”

“And,” he said slowly, “you were encouraging it.”

“I was laughing at a goat story.”

“He said he was trying to get your smile all night.”

“He did say that.”

Law’s jaw worked once.

You stared at him, heat rising in your chest now.

Not embarrassment this time. Not exactly anger either.

Something worse.

Something braver.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you said.

His eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second.

You stepped closer again.

“If it bothers you, say it bothers you.”

Law’s gaze lifted back to yours.

“It bothers me.”

The words came out flat.

Too controlled.

Law looked irritated the second he said it, as if the admission had escaped without permission.

You softened, but only a little.

“Why?”

His brows drew together. “You know why.”

“No,” you said. “I want to hear you say it.”

“That’s unnecessary.”

“You teleport me across rooms, Captain. I think we passed unnecessary three islands ago.”

Law looked away first.

“I don’t like watching them try,” he said.

Your heart thudded.

“Try what?”

His eyes came back to yours.

“To get your attention.”

Your voice lowered. “Why?”

His stare held yours.

“Because I want it.”

The sound from the street felt very far away.

You took one more step. “You have my attention.”

Law did not move. His eyes searched your face, looking for the trap.

“You’ve had it for a while.”

His arms unfolded slowly. “You should have said something,” he said.

Your laugh came out soft, breathless. “You first.”

Law’s mouth closed.

“You have been swapping people with crates instead of admitting you’re jealous.”

“I was not jealous.”

You gave him a look.

Then he said, lower, “Fine.”

Your stomach flipped.

“Fine?”

His hand lifted.

This time, there was no blue glow.

Just his fingers brushing your wrist.

“Jealous,” he said.

The word was quiet. Rough around the edges.

It did something terrible to you.

His fingers circled your wrist, but he did not pull.

For once, he waited.

So you stepped into him, grabbed the front of his hoodie, and dragged him down the last few inches yourself.

Law met you halfway.

The kiss hit hard.

For half a second, he did not move.

Then he kissed you back.

His hand slid from your wrist to your palm, then between your fingers, pressing your joined hands against the stacked crates beside your shoulder. His lips moved over yours carefully at first.

You kissed him harder.

Law groaned. He lifted your chin higher with the pressure of the kiss, changing the angle.

His tongue slid against yours, slow at first, then firmer when you answered him.

He stepped closer.

Your other hand rose to the side of his face, brushing the edge of his hat. The brim shifted. Law caught it without breaking the kiss and pulled it off, setting it blindly on one of the crates beside you.

Heat rushed through you.

You caught his lower lip between yours and tugged lightly.

Law froze.

Then he made a quiet sound against your mouth, and his hand pressed more firmly against the back of your neck.

Someone nearby called your name.

Both of you froze.

Law’s forehead lowered until it almost touched yours.

Penguin’s voice followed. “Captain? Are you back there?”

Law closed his eyes.

You bit your lip.

His hand was still at your waist. Yours were still curled in his hoodie.

Penguin’s footsteps came closer.

“Captain?”

Law exhaled through his nose.

You slapped a hand over your mouth to smother the laugh.

His eyes opened, narrowed on you, but there was no real bite in it.

The canvas shifted.

You both turned your heads.

Penguin pushed it aside, took one look at you tucked close to Law with his hat off, and went completely blank.

Then he lowered the canvas again.

From the other side, he said loudly, “Didn’t find them.”

Shachi’s voice answered, “You absolutely found them.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Are they kissing?”

“I said I didn’t find them!”

[velaenam]

birthday cake

18+ SMUT

happy birthday, to my baby daddy tengen uzui! you beautiful lovely flashy man. tags: some plot, pure smut, p in v, creampie, m/f, somnophilia?

its morning. the world outside the windows pale and quiet as cicadas start to sing. inside, the house is all hushed giggles and tangled blankets, the smell of tea wafting from the kitchen. you’re curled up at the low table with makio, suma, and hinatsuru, their voices dancing around you in excited, overlapping bursts.

makio’s chin is propped on her palm, eyes bright. “i’m telling you, he likes chocolate best! we should put extra cocoa in.”

suma is already sniffling, wringing her hands. “but what if it doesn’t rise? what if it falls apart and we ruin his birthday—”

hinatsuru just laughs, graceful as always, tucking a lock of hair behind suma’s ear. “it won’t. not with everyone helping.”

you’re grinning, head bent over your notepad, sketching out a wobbly little cake. it’s all tiers and flowers, maybe a sparkler on top for dramatic effect—something so “him” it makes you snort. “we can do chocolate, and maybe some mochi on top?” you murmur, biting your lip in concentration as you add little hearts and sparkles, the other wives craning to peek over your shoulder.

makio leans in, eyes wide. “he’ll love it, especially if you make it look all fancy. you know how he gets with stuff like that.”

you shrug, pretending not to care, but your smile gives you away. “it’s his birthday, he should feel special, right? i just want him to have the best day.”

suma bounces in her seat, brightening. “oh! and we have to wake him up early, right? so he gets all the attention first thing!”

the four of you are all laughter and quiet plotting, sunlight starting to edge across the floorboards, the promise of a perfect birthday just beginning to stir in the air.

the door slides open, the cool air shifting through the kitchen, and suddenly the table hushes just a bit—shoulders straightening, your hand dropping to close the notebook so fast it nearly topples your tea. makio kicks your ankle under the table, suma lets out a squeaky little giggle, and hinatsuru covers her mouth, eyes sparkling.

tengen strolls in, tall and radiant, hair still sleep-mussed but somehow regal, his presence filling the room before he even says a word. he pauses in the doorway, eyeing the four of you with a sly grin, voice warm and teasing. “well, well. what are my beautiful ladies plotting this early, hmm?”

he comes closer, leaning down to press a kiss to each wife’s cheek, suma nearly melting, makio rolling her eyes but blushing anyway, hinatsuru’s smile gentle and knowing. when he gets to you, his lips linger—just a moment longer, soft and slow, his palm brushing along your jaw before he finally pulls away, a secret glimmer in his eyes.

makio pipes up quick, a little too quick. “oh, nothing! just… deciding what to cook for breakfast, that’s all.” suma nods so hard her hair bounces, “y-yeah, nothing weird! just hungry.” hinatsuru laughs quietly, covering for all of you with an easy grace, “someone couldn’t sleep, so we’re keeping her company.”

tengen glances at the closed notebook, then at you, one eyebrow arched. “is that so?” he rumbles, smile widening. “well, hope you’re cooking up something extravagant for me—i expect to be spoiled today.”

you meet his gaze, cheeks warm, notebook clutched under your arm, and you lean back, giving him your best unimpressed look, tucking the notebook behind your back as if he might snatch it away and ruin the surprise. “your birthday’s not until tomorrow, don’t get ahead of yourself,” you tease, voice lilting with that playful warmth only he brings out of you.

tengen huffs, eyes going wide in mock offense, his hand to his chest like you’ve wounded him. “not even a little pre-birthday pampering? that’s harsh,” he grumbles, lips tugging into a dramatic pout.

makio snorts, suma giggles behind her hands, and even hinatsuru can’t hide her smile. you just shrug, biting back your own grin. “you can wait one more day, can’t you? i promise it’ll be worth it.”

he squints at you, trying to look suspicious but failing when the corners of his mouth betray him, curling up into that glittering, crooked smile. “if you say so, little troublemaker,” he murmurs, the words soft and meant just for you, his fingers brushing your wrist as he heads for the teapot.

when he comes back he slumps down next to suma, sprawling his legs and looks around expectantly. “so... what are we all doing today? i expect the full entertainment package, ladies.”

makio is the first to pipe up, tossing her hair back. “sparring with me, obviously. you need to keep up your training or you’ll get slow.”

suma perks up, bouncing a little. “let’s go out and look at the lanterns in town! i want to see them before it rains again.”

hinatsuru’s voice is a soothing counterpoint. “there’s a new tea blend in the market. maybe we can try it together after lunch?”

the room buzzes with suggestions and excitement, all eyes on you to add to the mix. but you just shake your head, tucking a stray hair behind your ear, trying to look casual. “i’m actually going to be busy today—lots of errands and things to do. you all go ahead.”

tengen’s mouth drops open, brows drawing together as he pouts, more dramatic than ever. “so i don’t get a pre-game? and i don’t get to hang out with you either? what a drag,” he sighs, flopping his head onto his folded arms, looking up at you with big, exaggerated puppy-dog eyes.

the wives giggle, and even you have to fight back a smile, because he’s so ridiculous and so charming, all at once—already counting the minutes until he can have you to himself again.

the house is quiet now, morning settling into that lazy, golden hush. you’re in the entryway, kneeling by your bag, fussing through lists in your head—market, bakery, shop for fresh eggs, check on the florist for those candies violets tengen liked. you’re so focused you don’t even hear him approach, not until a warm hand slides around your waist, the other bracing on the doorframe above your head.

his lips find your bare shoulder, soft and unhurried, a gentle press that sends your heart stumbling. you freeze in place, breath caught halfway out, and he laughs low against your skin, voice a little rough from sleep and secrets.

“so...” he murmurs, mouth still brushing your collarbone, “where are you really going that’s got you so busy, ma?” the question is teasing, but there’s that little glimmer of curiosity, the way he always wants to be in on your mischief.

you duck your head, cheeks warm, fingers nervously twisting the strap of your bag. “just errands,” you lie, voice barely above a whisper, “gotta make sure everything’s perfect for… tomorrow.”

his grip tightens a little, chin resting on your shoulder now. “you sure about that?” he drawls, playful but searching, eyes tracing over your face in the dusty morning light. “’cause it feels like you’re up to something.”

you smile, refusing to give him anything more, the secret between your teeth as you lean back into him just enough that he knows you love when he chases you, just like this.

then you try to wriggle out of his grasp, laughter bubbling up as you protest, but tengen’s grip is unyielding—broad hand firm at your waist, lips trailing up and down the curve of your shoulder like he’s starving for you. his hair falls around your face, tickling your cheek as he presses another open-mouthed kiss to your skin.

“mm, missed this,” he mumbles, words melting into your flesh. “missed touching you, holding you—can’t believe you’d leave me starving for so long.”

you giggle, finally twisting enough to look back at him, your face a mess of fond exasperation. “tengen, it’s only been a few weeks. you act like it’s a lifetime.”

he whines, nose bumping your neck, all dramatic and sweet, his voice going lower. “it is a lifetime. i have to have you every day, or i go crazy. you know that, right?” he punctuates his point with another kiss, this one lingering, letting his teeth graze just enough to make your breath catch.

you hush him with a hand to his cheek, still smiling as you shake your head. “so dramatic,” you whisper, loving him anyway, loving him all the more for it. his arms tighten around you, refusing to let go, and for a moment, the errands and secrets can wait—your world narrowed down to the sound of his voice, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, but you finally manage to pry his arms off you, laughter spilling out as you twist away. tengen groans, rolling his eyes dramatically, sprawling back against the wall like you’ve wounded him. you grab your bag and fuss with your sandals, feeling his gaze fixed on you the whole time.

“you’re gonna make me late,” you say, giving him a pointed look, though there’s no heat behind it.

he straightens up, that mischievous grin never fading. “can’t i just go with you?” he asks, all innocent, like he hasn’t spent the last five minutes trying to distract you with his hands and mouth.

you shake your head, reaching for the door. “i would love for you to come with me, but you can’t.”

he follows, stubborn to the last, trailing behind as you slide the door open. “why not? afraid i’ll cause a scene?”

you glance over your shoulder, barely suppressing a grin. “just because… i like the peace, that’s all. a quiet walk, errands done quick, no fuss.”

tengen gasps, clutching his heart in fake betrayal. “i’m not peaceful? i can be peaceful!” he protests, trailing you out onto the porch, voice rising with every step.

you’re already slipping into your shoes, waving him off, “you, peaceful? that’ll be the day.” you laugh as you step outside, his mock-offended sputtering echoing behind you, the sound warm and familiar—your favorite kind of music as you head off into the world with his love tucked close to your chest.

the day unfolds in a blur of bustling streets and bright voices, your arms quickly piling high with everything you need—flour, sugar, chocolate, cream, a basket of ripe strawberries, a tin of candied violets you had to bargain extra hard for. more than you’d planned, always more, but that’s what loving tengen means: double the eggs, triple the rice, enough to feed a man who fills every corner of a room and still manages to ask for seconds.

you catch yourself smiling, shoulders aching a little as you balance the trays and boxes, weaving through the crowds with an ease that only comes from old demon slayer days—steady feet, quick reflexes, the memory of carrying much heavier things through much rougher places. you can’t help but laugh to yourself as you think of what the shopkeepers must see: a young woman, balancing an absurd number of bags and crates, grinning like she’s in on the world’s best secret.

by the time you head home, the afternoon sun is warm on your back, your heart full and your arms brimming with all the ingredients you need to make his birthday something spectacular. and even though your muscles burn, you wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything—not the weight, not the chaos, not the way it makes you feel alive and woven tight to someone you love.

you edge the door open with your hip, arms piled high, trying to make as little noise as possible. the floor creaks anyway, the latch clicks too loud, and you wince, holding your breath as you slip inside, eyes darting down the hall.

for a second, you think you’ve made it—no sound, no footsteps—then his voice cuts through the quiet, warm and smug.

“this is why you should’ve taken me.”

you nearly drop everything, yelping as the stack wobbles dangerously. before you can even recover, he’s there, hands quick and sure, catching every bag and tray before they hit the floor. you stare up at him, heart hammering, and he’s already grinning, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement.

“what happened to those sharp instincts, huh?” he drawls, leaning in close, eyes glinting. “you used to take down demons, and now you’re jumping at your husband’s voice? guess your skills are getting dull, sweetheart.”

you swat at him half-heartedly, cheeks burning. “you scared me, that’s all.”

“mhm.” he hums, pretending to think it over, one brow raised. “sure. or maybe you just missed me too much to focus.”

you roll your eyes, trying not to smile as he takes the rest of the bags from your hands, humming some little tune like he hasn’t just made your heart stutter out of your chest.

he sets the bags down with a soft thud, flour dust spilling faintly into the air. before you can even straighten, his hands are already at your waist, drawing you in until your chest meets his. his mouth finds yours easily, warm and tasting faintly of mint and rain. you melt into it without thinking, the quiet sigh that slips out of you swallowed up between his lips.

when he tries to deepen the kiss, you pull back just enough to catch your breath, your fingers pressed lightly to his chest. “what’s gotten into you today?” you ask, half-teasing, trying to steady the flutter in your voice.

tengen tilts his head, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “what, i can’t kiss my wife?” he murmurs, thumbs tracing slow circles at your hips. his tone softens, eyes dipping down to yours. “just miss you, pretty lady. you’re too busy for me these days.”

you laugh quietly, the sound small in the space between you, and he leans forward again, stealing another quick kiss before you can say anything more. his grin lingers when he pulls back, the mock hurt fading into something quieter, sweeter.

you pull away with a breathless laugh, brushing your fingers over your lips as you turn toward the heap of ingredients. the kitchen feels warm again, the smell of sugar and flour already curling into the air. you start sorting what goes where—checking lists, stacking trays, trying to focus—while tengen leans against the doorframe, arms folded, that exaggerated pout sitting pretty on his face.

“so this is it, huh?” he drawls, eyes half-lidded and teasing. “you’re just gonna ignore me all day while i wither away in the corner?”

you don’t look up, biting back a grin. “maybe if you keep this whiny attitude up,” you shoot back, stacking the flour sacks neatly.

he groans dramatically, sliding down the frame until he’s crouched, chin propped on his palm, watching you with mock despair. “heartless,” he mutters, “absolutely heartless.”

you’re about to tease him again when the sound of laughter trickles in from the hallway—the other girls, voices bright and lilting. the moment they spot him, they start to scold, hands on hips, smiles mischievous. “out, out,” makio says, shooing him from the kitchen, “you’re not supposed to see anything yet!”

tengen sighs, but he doesn’t fight them. as he’s being dragged away, he leans in for one last moment—presses a quick kiss to your cheek, lingering just long enough to make your heart flutter—and murmurs, “don’t work too hard, pretty lady.”

then he’s gone, laughter and protests fading down the hall, and you’re left smiling over the counter, your hands dusted with flour and your heart still warm from his touch.

midnight slides quiet and softly across the house. the festival lights outside have long since faded, the kitchen is dark except for the faint flicker of the old lamp in the hallway. the air smells like sweet things, warmth, the distant scent of sugar dust. you’re tucked under layers of blankets, the weight of the day making your bones heavy, sleep pulling you under in slow, gentle waves.

the futon is a tangle of limbs—suma curled up at hinatsuru’s side, makio breathing soft and deep, all three of them huddled in a cluster on the far edge. tengen is sprawled in the middle, one arm draped over the three, but his eyes are fixed on you, just a little apart from the others, your silhouette gentle in the moonlight.

he watches you for a while, the steady rise and fall of your breath, the way your hand clutches the blanket just under your chin. the urge builds in him, slow and sure, something greedy and sweet and aching. he shifts quietly, careful not to wake the others, and lets his hand drift across the bedding, searching for the curve of your waist. his fingers find the soft line of your hip, and he smiles, low and to himself, savoring the feel of you.

he leans in, voice soft as silk, lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “hey, beautiful. ‘s your favorite sound—me waking you up in the middle of the night.” his hand squeezes your waist, slow and shameless, thumb tracing circles as he waits for you to stir, for your lashes to flutter open and find him grinning in the dark.

you groan, scowling without even opening your eyes, your voice rough and drowsy. “what’s gotten into you now, tengen? can’t this wait till morning?”

he grins, mouth hovering by your ear, voice low and teasing. “not a chance, not when i got my girl all to myself and she’s over here pretending she’d rather sleep.”

you huff, burrowing deeper into the blankets, but you can’t hide the smile tugging at your lips. he’s silent for a moment, his hand still stroking gentle at your waist, then his voice dips softer—quieter, almost serious. “hey. wanna come talk to me in the other room for a bit? just you and me?”

your eyes crack open, meeting his, heavy-lidded and stubborn. “no, not really. i’m comfortable. it’s warm here.”

he just shakes his head, amusement flickering in his eyes, then shifts carefully, untangling himself from your wives—moving slow, careful not to wake them, lifting his arm and slipping out from under makio’s leg, suma’s hair trailing across his shoulder.

before you can protest, he’s slipping his arms around you, lifting you effortlessly, blankets and all. “guess i’ll just have to change your mind, huh?” he whispers, already moving toward the door with you cradled tight against his chest. your sleepy complaints melt away in the dark, swallowed by the warm hush of the house and the way he carries you like you’re something precious, something meant only for him.

he moves through the shadows, door sliding shut behind him with a soft click, the hallway fading into quiet. you barely register the shift as he carries you to the smaller bedroom, laying you down with all the care in the world.

then after he watches you he’s on top of you, his body caging yours but his touch featherlight, lips finding yours in the hush. this kiss is different—slow, melting, the kind that aches all the way down your spine. there’s no hurry, just his mouth tracing yours, his hands cradling your face, like he’s trying to map your every curve in the moonlight.

you’re half asleep, lips parting on a lazy little murmur, “tengen… what are you doing…?”

he laughs softly, nose brushing your cheek, his hair a silk curtain brushing your skin. “it’s my birthday,” he whispers, voice honeyed, “i need something sweet.”

your eyelids flutter, a smile tugging at your mouth even as you yawn. “weren’t you supposed to be talking to me…?”

he grins, kissing you again, deeper this time, his hands never leaving your skin. “i am talking,” he breathes, mouth warm on your jaw, “just not with words.” he trails kisses down your neck, slow and worshipful, making it clear you’re the only thing he wants to unwrap tonight.

your senses come awake all at once, his mouth still ghosting over your neck, breath hot in the dark. your hand finds its way down, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of his waistband, warm and eager. his breath hitches, low and rough, a sound meant just for you.

he bites back a groan, forehead pressed to your shoulder, voice coming out in a whisper-sharp tease. “oh? getting bold tonight, huh?” he murmurs, laughter rumbling under your palm as you wrap your fingers around him.

you squeeze just enough to make him shudder, thumb tracing lazy, slow circles, your voice sleep-rough and a little smug. “this is the only thing that’ll keep you quiet, you know,” you mutter, half-laughing as you stroke him.

he grins in the dark, his hips rolling into your touch, cock heavy and hard against your hand. “that so? guess you’d better not stop then,” he groans, rutting up into your fist, the rhythm needy but controlled, letting you set the pace—each movement coaxing another quiet, desperate sound from his lips.

his hands never leave your body, tracing over your waist, your hips, holding you close as you draw him in, the air thick with want and the promise of everything he wants to give you.

but then,

his eyes go wide as you slip your hand from his cock, the warmth of your palm disappearing. before he can protest, you move fast—straddling his hips, pushing him back into the pillows, all sleepy confidence. your sash comes loose in your hands, and you catch his wrists, pinning them above his head. he lets you, grinning, eyes shining with anticipation as you knot the fabric snugly to the bedframe.

“oh? is this what we’re doing now?” he murmurs, laughter bubbling at the edge of his words, mischief dancing in his gaze.

you settle on top of him, palms on his chest, your body hot and light and in control. he arches up, trying to chase your touch, but you slip off just as quickly, knees gliding across the futon.

“hey—” his voice is half-surprised, half-laughing, but you’re already off the bed, bare feet padding across the tatami.

you shoot him a sly, wicked grin over your shoulder as you step out into the hall. “patience, birthday boy,” you say, sliding the door closed behind you, the sound gentle but final. his laughter follows you out, laced with disbelief and delight, as you leave him tied up and wanting.

morning comes, sunlight spilling through the paper screens and warming your skin. the futon is tangled, the room quiet but for the distant clatter of breakfast being made somewhere down the hall. you blink blearily, only to realize tengen’s arm is slung heavy around your waist, his body curved into yours, impossibly warm and far too comfortable for how much you still have to do.

you wriggle, trying to sit up, but his hold only tightens, pulling you back until you’re flush against his chest. his face is buried in your hair, lips grazing your ear as he murmurs, voice low and rough with sleep, “don’t go yet. just a little longer. it’s my birthday, remember?”

you can feel him pressed against you, hard and insistent, his morning wood nudging the small of your back. you suck in a shaky breath, cheeks heating as you try to squirm free, but he just laughs, the sound lazy and pleased, nuzzling you even closer.

“breakfast can wait,” he rumbles, lips pressing slow, sleepy kisses along your shoulder. “wanna keep you to myself a little longer. everyone else always gets you first.”

his hands roam beneath the blanket, sliding up your ribs, pulling you in until there’s nothing between you but heat and want. his hands wander further, lazy and slow, calloused palms brushing beneath your nightclothes, thumb tracing the soft curve of your breast until you shiver beneath him. his breath is warm on your neck, every groan low and rumbling, thick with sleep and hunger both.

he squeezes you gently, fingers rolling over your nipple, the blanket rustling as he presses closer, hips pushing forward until you feel just how much he wants you. he noses at your hair, groaning again, his voice hoarse and grateful. “hmm, you feel so good. don’t think i’ll ever get enough of you,” he murmurs, voice still thick with dreams, the words sinking right into your skin.

you let your head fall back against his shoulder, body melting into his touch, breath trembling with each teasing stroke. your fingers lace with his, guiding his hand over your chest, your heart beating wild beneath his palm.

“happy birthday, my love.” you whisper, words barely more than a breath, and you feel his smile against your skin, his hips rocking, needy and sweet, already losing himself in the softness of you.

he buries his face in your neck, lips curling into a shameless pout. “just the tip?” he whispers, voice low and hopeful, and there’s that spoiled edge only you ever get to see. you try to stifle a laugh, but his hands are everywhere, insistent, coercing you open beneath the blankets.

“okay, fine,” you murmur, rolling your hips back just enough to tempt him, breath hitching as you feel him already lining himself up behind you, cock thick and hot at your entrance.

he groans, barely keeping his composure, his tip nudging right where you’re softest. “god, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, thrusting his hips forward, rocking against you with all the desperation he’s held onto since last night. each little grind is more than just a tease—he’s already shaking, breath hot against your ear, hands gripping your hips to keep you right where he wants you.

he keeps his promise—at least for the first few moments—grinding just the tip inside you, hips rolling in slow, teasing circles that make your breath catch. his cock throbs at your entrance, never pushing in fully, just enough for you to feel the ache, the wanting. his hand slips lower, fingers brushing over your clit, drawing soft, lazy circles that have your thighs trembling.

he moans low and shameless in your ear, voice rough with need, “missed you so much. fuck, you have no idea.” his hand squeezes your breast, mouth warm and wet on your neck. “best birthday ever… if i can fuck your perfect pussy. i just need you, sweetheart. i need you so bad.”

each thrust grows needier, his restraint fraying with every sound you make, every little gasp and shiver beneath him. you feel his lips curl into a smile against your shoulder, his words turning messy and sweet, “i can’t wait any longer, baby… you’re all i want.”

his hips slow, just for a moment, teasing you with that unbearable edge, and you sigh, finally catching your breath, a shaky sort of relief curling through you. your whole body aches for more, the wanting so sharp it almost hurts, and you think maybe he’ll finally let up, let you catch your bearings.

but then you feel him shift behind you, a hungry, wicked rumble in his chest as he wraps his arms tight around your waist, pinning you right where he wants you. “not done, angel,” he whispers, and then he pushes in, slow and deep, filling you all at once, his cock stretching you open, heat washing over you in a shuddering wave.

he holds you tight, hips snug against your ass, not letting you move an inch, his breath stuttering out in a moan against your ear. “there you go… fuck, that’s it, baby,” he murmurs, his voice heavy with relief and need. you’re helpless in his arms, heart pounding, the world shrinking to just the sound of your bodies, the sunlight, and the way he won’t let you go.

he shifts, rolling you gently onto your side, his chest pressed flush to your back, one thick thigh wedged between yours, keeping you open for him. his arm curls under your head, cradling you, while his other hand drags your face back to meet his gaze—fingers firm on your chin, thumb stroking your jaw, holding you there so you can’t shy away from him or the heat in his eyes.

his hips move slow, every thrust deep, heavy, his cock nudging your cervix with each roll, stretching you until you’re gasping—tears blurring your vision, breath hitching in your throat. he leans in, lips brushing your ear, his words thick with praise and taunt.

“oh, you missed this, huh? missed getting fucked by me, ma?” he breathes, every word a jolt down your spine. “c’mon, admit it. you can’t take how big it is, right? you’re so tight for me, you just feel so, so, good.”

your body arches helplessly into him, thighs shaking, mouth falling open on a trembling moan. he kisses your neck, tongue lapping at the salty skin, never letting you look away, his hand guiding your face back every time you try to hide.

“look at me, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick with want. “let me see how good i make you feel. you’re my good girl, yeah? my gorgeous and sexy wife.”

his thrusts grow a little deeper, a little slower, dragging every sound from your lips until there’s nothing but the heat and the ache and the feeling of him, wrapped around you, inside you, claiming every bit of your morning and your heart.

his hips stutter and you feel him tremble behind you, a ragged, needy whine escaping his throat. “fuck—already?” he groans, barely more than a breath as he spills inside you, hot and sudden, his body pressed tight to yours so you feel every pulse, every shudder.

he buries his face in your shoulder, panting, voice muffled and a little sheepish, “damn, was gonna savor it… couldn’t help myself.” embarrassment colors his tone, but only for a second—because even as his release seeps out, slicking your thighs, he doesn’t stop.

he shifts you easily, manhandling you onto your back, his hands bracing your knees as he folds you up—mating press, his weight bearing you down, cock still hard and twitching inside you, wet with both your pleasure and his own. he’s insatiable, thrusting again, deeper, messier, cum smearing between your bodies with every slow, hungry roll of his hips.

“not done with you yet,” he pants, lips brushing yours, voice dark with hunger and promise. “gonna give you everything, again and again… ’til you can’t take any more, pretty girl.” he watches every reaction, every moan. his grip tightens, the world dissolving into heat and rhythm—his hips snapping harder, each thrust relentless, rough, making the futon bunch and shift beneath you. your legs are folded up tight, thighs pressed to your chest, his hands holding you in place so you can’t run, can’t hide from the way he’s fucking you, deep and wild.

your moans start to spill out, sharp and raw, but he slides his thumb between your lips, muffling every cry, every gasp, the taste of his skin filling your mouth as your eyes flutter, overwhelmed and greedy for more. he keeps you pinned, his body caging yours, sweat dripping down his chest, jaw clenched, eyes dark with need.

“that’s it, pretty girl—take it,” he growls, voice low, hips rolling harder, cock hitting deep every time. “so fucking perfect, so sweet for me. let me hear you, even if you gotta bite down.”

your body shudders, hips rocking up to meet his, every movement desperate, every sound muffled by his thumb—pleasure building in helpless, dizzying waves as he claims you, over and over, the world nothing but heat, sweat, and the wild, messy tangle of you and him.

your body tenses, shuddering around him as you come undone, clenching tight, waves of pleasure rolling through you—your cries broken and muffled by his thumb as you arch into him, eyes squeezing shut.

he feels you clench and loses himself too, hips stuttering as he spills inside you again, breath caught in his throat, curses and praise tumbling out in a rough, hungry rush. he rides it out, slow and deep, not letting you go until you’re both trembling, bodies slick and tangled up in sweat and the sticky mess between your thighs.

he finally collapses over you, still catching his breath, pressing messy kisses to your shoulder and jaw. his thumb slips from your mouth and he grins, breathless, voice dipped low in that teasing drawl you know too well. “damn… sorry for ambushing you right outta bed, pretty girl. just couldn’t help myself.”

he nuzzles your cheek, lips ghosting your ear, a wicked spark lighting up his eyes. “gonna want you again tonight, too. hope you’re ready to spoil your birthday boy all over again.”

his weight is still heavy on you, the heat of his body pressed close, his dick softening but still nestled deep inside. he peppers your cheeks, your neck, your collarbones with kisses, his words tumbling out in a soft, lazy stream—praise and sweetness and the low, satisfied rumble of someone utterly smitten. “so perfect for me, you know that? always so good. can’t believe you’re mine, every single day.”

you squirm a little, breathless and smiling, your voice a sleepy mumble as you nudge his side, “tengen, you need to get off me… can’t breathe, and we need to help with breakfast.”

he hums, pretending to ignore you, still whispering against your skin, but finally—reluctantly—he rolls off, your bodies coming apart with a messy, lingering ache. he stretches, arms overhead, grinning all wild and content before tugging you up and into his side.

the two of you lay there for another heartbeat, basking in the golden hush, before the distant clatter of dishes and the laughter of your wives drags you both back to the world. you exchange one last lazy kiss, then start to gather yourselves up, slipping into a yukata and wiping down flushed cheeks, ready to meet the day with post sex smiles and the promise of another night just for you.

you slip into the hallway together, tengen’s pinky hooked around yours, both of you still flushed and soft with the secret of the morning. the kitchen’s bright with sunlight now, the table already set, a feast of steaming rice, miso soup, grilled fish, and sliced fruit spread out in a cheerful, messy display.

makio is bustling about with plates, suma’s fussing with the tea, and hinatsuru glances up with a knowing smile when she sees you both—her eyes crinkling, a hint of mischief hiding in her calm.

the four of you settle around the table, knees bumping, laughter spilling over as tengen squeezes your hand beneath the table, thumb tracing over your knuckles. suma clasps her hands and starts singing first, voice sweet and a little too loud, makio jumping in with a grin, hinatsuru harmonizing gently. you join in last, all of you weaving your voices together—off-key and bright, the kind of song that fills every corner of the home.

“happy birthday to you,” the words ring out, hands clapping, chopsticks tapping on bowls, and tengen laughs, basking in the attention, the love, the beautiful mess of all of you gathered close.

breakfast becomes a tangle of stories, teasing, and little gifts, every bite bright with the promise of another year—together, chaotic, and whole.

and after breakfast, the girls sweep tengen away into the garden with a chorus of teasing and laughter, suma already clinging to his arm and makio plotting some game that will keep him far from the kitchen. hinatsuru winks at you on her way out, as if she knows exactly what you’re about to do.

with the kitchen to yourself, you set to work. ingredients line the counter in neat rows—chocolate, cream, candied violets, shiny sugar pearls, every color you could find. you mix and whisk, lost in the rhythm of baking, the scent of melting butter and sweet vanilla filling the kitchen. the bowls stack up quick, batter going into two pans, layers rising gold and soft in the oven.

you build the cake tall, two tiers, each one covered in glossy chocolate and finished with bright splashes of color. you pipe swirls and zigzags, spell out his name in shimmering sugar, crown the whole thing with gold-dusted fruit, candied violets, and edible glitter—something loud and joyful and utterly tengen, the kind of cake that makes you grin just to look at it.

when you’re done, you step back, flour on your cheek, admiring your work. it’s big, a little over-the-top, and exactly right for him—a celebration in every inch, a reflection of the man you love, waiting to be surprised.

the laughter and clamor from the other room tells you you have just enough time to set the table, candles and all, and wait for his wide-eyed, delighted reaction.

you dim the lights, leaving the kitchen aglow in the late afternoon hush. you set the cake in the center of the table, the tiers shining with chocolate, the sugar glimmering under the tiny flicker of candles and two sparklers hissing at the very top. gold and violet sugar dust catches the light—loud, bold, almost a little too much, just like him. and, it’s perfect.

with your hands still a little shaky, you call out, “can you all come here?”

the laughter grows louder, the girls ushering tengen through the door with playful pushes, suma’s hands over his eyes until the very last second. when he opens them, the whole room is alight—cake sparkling, your face glowing in the warm dark, everyone’s eyes fixed on him.

he freezes, eyes wide for just a beat, and then they soften, shining with something tender and quiet beneath all the usual bravado. the sparkler crackles, the room fills with soft applause and gentle laughter, and for a moment, the world holds its breath.

he looks at you, eyes only for you, mouth curving into that honest, wild smile—full of delight, gratitude, and all the love he never tries to hide, not with you.

he stands there a moment longer, just staring at the cake—your handiwork shining, candles flickering, the sparklers burning down to golden sparks. you see the way his jaw works, how he tries to bite back the emotion, but it’s there in the glassy shimmer of his eyes.

tengen laughs, soft and a little shaky, then reaches out, pulling all of you into his arms. it’s a messy, sprawling embrace, laughter and perfume and warmth pressed together, his arms strong around each of you. he kisses suma’s hair, presses a gentle one to makio’s cheek, then hinatsuru’s forehead, and when he gets to you, his lips linger—sweet, sure, the kind of kiss that says thank you, i love you, and you’re my favorite, all at once.

“best birthday,” he murmurs, holding you close, “best girls.”

the cake flickers between you, and for a moment, and then you all pull back, grinning and flushed with the warmth of his affection, and makio nudges him toward the table, eyes sparkling. “well? aren’t you going to cut into it, birthday boy?”

tengen rolls up his sleeves, exaggerating the motion, and picks up the knife with a little flourish. he cuts a generous slice, careful not to topple the glittering top tier, and plates it for everyone. you and the wives lean in, anticipation buzzing in the air as he lifts the first forkful to his mouth.

he takes a bite—slow, dramatic, drawing it out just to make you all squirm—then his eyes go wide, the sweetest kind of shock. he chews, swallows, and breaks into that big, earnest grin. “this is the best cake I’ve ever had,” he declares, voice bright and real.

the room erupts with cheers and laughter, suma clapping, makio throwing her arms around your shoulders, hinatsuru smiling her quiet, way. you can’t help but beam, heart fluttering as tengen reaches over to tug you close, giving you that look that says you’ve made him the happiest man in the world, at least for today.

you all gather close, knees brushing under the table, cake plates in hand, crumbs and laughter scattered between you. the light is soft and amber, sparklers burned down to ash, candles dripping tiny rivers of wax onto the tabletop. everyone’s voices overlap—suma telling a silly story about tengen when they were younger, makio goading him into another taste, hinatsuru humming her contentment as she wipes crumbs from the corners of suma’s mouth.

you find yourself watching him more than the cake, tracing the lines of his face in the glow—the way he glances at each of you, making sure everyone’s plate is full, eyes soft and warm every time you laugh. he’s loud, yes, and bold, always taking up space, but it’s his tenderness in these little moments that undoes you.

he catches you looking, reaches across the table to squeeze your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles, his smile going all gentle and private just for you. the sound of your family fills the air, and you fall in love with him all over again—doting, bright, a little ridiculous, but yours. always, always yours.

the house is quieter tonight, laughter faded into soft goodnights, the futons already set out. you’d waved the girls off to bed, insisting you’d handle the mess just this once. the kitchen is dim and peaceful, the last traces of cake still sweet on your tongue, your hands warm in the dishwater.

you barely hear him at first—the soft creak of the tatami, the hush of his footsteps. then he’s behind you, body heat radiating through the thin silk of your kimono. his hands slide gently around your waist, pulling you flush to his chest. you startle, breath catching, as he nudges the fabric aside, baring your shoulder to the cool air.

his lips are there a moment later—soft, plush, sweet as he kisses your skin, slow and lingering. he trails from your shoulder to the nape of your neck, his breath warm and steady, the barest scrape of his teeth sending goosebumps over your arms.

“couldn’t sleep,” he murmurs, his voice hushed against your skin. “kept thinking about you. about how beautiful you looked today. about how lucky i am.” his hands roam, one sliding up to cup your breast through the fabric, the other squeezing your waist, grounding you in the dim quiet.

his mouth lingers at the curve of your neck, voice low and a little rough, “let me make love to you tonight.” it’s not a question—it’s a plea, a promise wrapped in gold, and it leaves you dizzy, the words sinking deep into your skin.

you flush, glancing at the sink, stammering, “i still have to finish cleaning up—there’s so much left, i—”

he cuts you off with a gentle, amused sound, reaching down to take your wet hands in his. he dries them slowly with a soft towel, thumb brushing over your knuckles, so attentive you almost forget to protest. he holds your gaze, his own steady and warm, then with no real effort at all, lifts you up, settling you on the kitchen counter.

you’re eye-level with him now, legs dangling, kimono falling open around your thighs. his hands go to your hips, anchoring you, his lips finding yours again—hungrier, deeper, all the day’s longing folding into the space between your bodies. he kisses you until you can only feel the heat of his mouth, the clean scent of soap on your skin, the taste of sugar still on your tongue.

you forget the dishes, the mess, everything but him—your hands rising to cup his cheeks as he claims you again and again, the kitchen bathed in heat, your love spilling out into the quiet of the night.

he pulls you closer, fingers working at your obi, the knot coming undone with practiced ease. the silk slips away, your kimono parting under his hands, leaving your skin open to his touch and his gaze.

he kisses you harder, lips trailing down your throat, across your collarbone, voice thick with love and want. “you know this is the best birthday i’ve ever had?” he murmurs between kisses, every word blooming warm against your skin. “you make everything better. you always do.”

his hands roam your sides, his mouth pressing over every bit of you he can reach, worshipful and slow, the praise falling from his lips in a steady stream. “so beautiful. so considerate and thoughtful.” his words make you ache, the tenderness in his touch matching the soft heat in his eyes.

the kitchen feels like a secret, set apart from the rest of the world, just the two of you and the light, his hands and mouth making a memory of you in every way he knows how.

his mouth breaks from yours, and you feel his hand slip away, hear him rummage behind you—a soft scrape of plate and the faint, sweet scent of chocolate frosting. you’re still catching your breath when you feel the cool press of his finger at your chest, circling your nipple with a dollop of the leftover cake frosting, sticky and sweet.

he meets your gaze, grinning all sly and satisfied, before dipping his head down, tongue flicking out to lap at the mess he’s made. his mouth closes over your nipple, sucking slow and deep, the warmth of him melting the sugar against your skin.

he hums around you, savoring every taste, his eyes flicking up to watch your reaction. “mmm, even sweeter like this,” he murmurs, lips glossy with frosting, voice dark and full of promise. “think i could spend every birthday right here, tasting you and cake together.”

his hands squeeze your hips, anchoring you to the counter as he goes back for more, making you feel like the only gift he ever wanted.

he doesn’t stop until every bit of frosting is gone, tongue swirling, mouth warm and wet, leaving your skin tingling and marked by his devotion. he lingers, lips pressing gentle kisses over your breast, then your collarbone, savoring you long after the sugar’s disappeared.

when you’re breathless, legs trembling where they dangle off the counter, he finally scoops you up with easy strength, cradling you against his chest. the world tilts, the kitchen fading behind you as he carries you down the quiet hallway, footsteps light on the floor.

he pushes the spare bedroom door open with his shoulder, setting you down onto the futon with all the care in the world. he follows you down, laying his body over yours, pressing you gently into the blankets. his mouth finds your neck, lips slow and steady, hands roaming everywhere they can reach, worshipping you with every touch and kiss, as if to prove again and again that there’s nothing in this world he’d rather celebrate than you.

he buries his face in your neck, breath hot and ragged, words slurred with the heavy sweetness of wanting you. “perfect birthday… perfect gift…” he mumbles, fingers catching on the silk, pulling your kimono off in a single, practiced sweep. the fabric pools around you, your body bared to him, all soft skin and flushed cheeks under his gaze.

his hands are everywhere at once now—palms sliding over your hips, your thighs, your waist, squeezing, committing every inch like a memory. like he can’t believe you’re real. he presses slow, hungry kisses across your chest, jaw, shoulders, his lips leaving invisible trails that spark and smolder.

love drunk and a little wild, he murmurs your name over and over between kisses, devoted and low, as if he can’t ever get enough. “you’re everything,” he breathes, hands trembling as they press to your body, eyes glassy with gratitude and longing. “never want anything but you.”

he pauses for a moment, lips still pressed to your throat, eyes flicking up and catching the shimmer of tears at your lashes—your cheeks flushed, lips parted, looking up at him with that soft, ruined glint that makes his heart ache. he’s mesmerized, breath catching in his chest, the sight of you spread out for him so perfect, so wanting, so vulnerable and beautiful it nearly undoes him.

his hands tremble a little as he reaches down, fumbling his cock free, the head swollen and slick. he drags himself slowly over your entrance, teasing you, coating himself in your slick, savoring the way you shiver beneath him. his thumb strokes your cheek, gentle and smug, and he leans in to kiss your lips, his voice gone thick and hungry.

“you look so good like this,” he murmurs, dragging his length back and forth over your folds, nudging at your entrance but never quite pushing in. “gonna give you everything, sweetheart. i want you so bad it hurts.”

your hips arch up to meet him, needy and desperate, and when he finally presses in, sliding slow and thick, you gasp—your head falling back, eyes squeezed shut as he fills you up, inch by inch, until he’s buried all the way inside. the stretch makes you moan, breathy and aching, and he’s just as wrecked above you, crying out your name, voice breaking on the sound.

he stays there for a moment, trembling, breath ghosting over your cheek as he whispers, “i love you. love you so much. god—don’t think i’ll ever stop.” each word is a litany, a wedding vow, spilling out over and over as he begins to move, rocking his hips into you, slow and deep, the way he knows drives you wild.

his hands cradle your face, his lips pressed to your forehead as he thrusts, every motion full of longing, devotion, and something wild and hopeful beneath the surface. he groans, a little choked, “i wanna have kids with you. s’what i want for my birthday, if you want too. wanna see you round with my baby, wanna make a family with you.” he laughs, a little sheepish and breathless, but the honesty in his voice makes you ache—because you know he means every word.

your hands reach up, clutching at his shoulders, voice trembling and raw as you nod, the words spilling out without hesitation—“please, tengen, i want it too. i want you, i want a family. please…”

he laughs, a wild, broken sound, crashing his mouth to yours, swallowing every word and whimper as he thrusts harder, deeper, desperate and shaking with the force of it. he’s muttering into your skin, “fuck—i love you, my sweet woman, my everything—the reason I breathe, my eternal soulmate—god, I love you.”

he pins your arms above your head, fingers laced with yours, bodies flush, sweat-slick and burning with the fever of it. you feel him everywhere, his mouth, his hands, his love flooding through you, and when you break, it’s together—your body shuddering around him, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, crying out your name.

you’re both breathless and shaking, eyes wet, tears slipping down your cheeks as you manage to choke out, “happy birthday, tengen. i love you so much.”

he laughs through the tears, voice cracking as he kisses you again and again, “I love you so much too—so, so much.”

you echo it, both of you a mess, hearts in pieces and put back together in each other’s arms, tangled in passion and devotion.

[riotsgrl]

★ HEAVY | bakugou, k.

pairing: katsuki bakugou x reader

summary: when you’re unable to sleep for the third night in a row, katsuki notices— and takes matters into his own hands.

( OR: your boyfriend fucks you to sleep. )

content: comfort / fluff + SMUT - mdni ! pro-hero!bkg. established relationship. domestic intimacy. implied insomniac!reader — can be read as simply having issues with sleep. some banter. clear consent. soft kissing. slight marking / hickeys. pet names (baby). breast play. spit (on ur clit). dedicated pussy eating. fingering. self doubt/insecurity + praise/reassurance. finger sucking. missionary to mating press. "i love you" during sex. multiple orgasms. overstimulation. cum eating. aftercare. emotional & soft smut with feelings, bkg is very much in love !!! and he doesn’t cum but he dgaf this is abt u. quite some built up before the smut lmao. wc: 6.2k.

note: thinking back to the days i would literally Not Sleep 🚬🚬 also this to me is veery soft dom bkg i like dat ^_^

masterlist. | fic based on this request ! ( thank u anon!! )

The glow of your phone was soft against the tired lines of your face. You scrolled through your feed mindlessly, dry eyes fixed onto the screen, barely lingering on anything for longer than a few seconds.

Dull frustration sat heavy under your skin. 

You couldn’t sleep. Again. And it wasn't for a lack of trying.

You'd taken the medicine, made your attempts— many attempts. Setting your phone down, squeezing your eyes shut, wishing desperately for a soft, peaceful slumber to come find you. 

But it never did.

So, you did what you had done the two nights before this: distracted yourself. Doomscrolled well into the hours of the early morning, when the faint, first rays of the sun filtered through your curtains and you could finally get up and not have to pretend anymore.

It was all you could do, really.

Your weighted gaze dragged over to the time in the top right corner. The bold numbers 3:24 stared back at you like a taunt. You exhaled quietly, temples throbbing.

You should stop.

You should’ve stopped hours ago.

But before you could berate yourself any further, a high-pitched squeak tore through the stillness of the room.

You clutched your phone over your chest in an instant breath caught dead in your throat as the mattress creaked. Your pulse hammered in your ears as the sheets rustled behind you, a tell-tale sign of your boyfriend shifting in his sleep.

With a grunt, Katsuki threw a heavy arm over your waist, turning so that his bare chest was pressed up against your back. The warmth from his skin seeped in through your shirt. He was all encompassing, enveloping you in his dizzying heat.

Swallowing, you prayed silently that you hadn't woken him.

He let out a sigh, the soft sound muffled into the nape of your neck.

You remained as still as you could, fighting to not squirm.

A beat passed, then another.

Your insides melted with quiet relief when he didn't stir, when the rise and fall of his lungs fell in sync with yours— his body giving no indication that he was awake.

With a quiet breath you picked up your phone again, decidedly going back to what you what had busied yourself with before he decided to get all cuddly. But when the brightness of the screen decided to assault you, your heart dropped to your stomach, that relief dying in an instant.

You grimaced at the light, fumbling to quickly get it back down to the lowest setting. It had been all the way down this whole time! You must've misclicked, or—

"You're a shitty fuckin' actor."

You could've swore your soul left your fucking body at the gravelly voice against your ear.

"What the fu—"

You didn't get a chance to finish. Katsuki was already reaching over you, guiding your hand with his to set your phone facedown on your nightstand before bringing it back over your middle, rough palm holding your hand over your stomach.

Your shoulders were wound tight as he spoke; voice tired, gruff as always. But, strangely, he sounded calm.

"Third night in a row. You're not sleeping right."

It was less of an accusation, more of a statement.

He gave it to you plainly, straight and simple. But you thought you had been discreet, the mere feeling of being caught was enough to have you opening your mouth, readying your defense, but his next words had it snapping back shut.

"And don't you fucking lie to me 'bout it."

You bit the inside of your lower lip, running over how you could possibly explain yourself without sounding pathetic.

The last few nights had been much the same: restless, spent tossing and turning.

Even when you did manage to fall asleep on the first try, you'd wake up at odd hours, left to stare at the ceiling with burning eyes, unable to quiet your mind, which was simultaneously ever-racing and absolutely empty.

When you thought about it too long, the corners of your eyes pricked. A quiet, defeated ache twisted in your chest.

You didn't want to cry, not over something so menial, so stupid. Not now, not with him watching— expecting an answer from you.

You swallowed back the lump building up in your throat, feeling the slow brush of his thumb over your knuckles.

"Not sleepy."

It came out tight, quiet. Like you were afraid that if you spoke too loud, your fragile attempt at keeping all of that built up frustration inside would fall apart.

You wanted him to give it up, let you be for once. But Katsuki Bakugou was nothing if not stubborn.

With a rumbling sigh, he rolled you onto your back, reaching an arm over you to pull at the chain of your bedside lamp.

You groaned at the sudden light washing over your bedroom, tugging your blanket up over the bottom half of your face as if it could protect you.

Annoyed, you zeroed your squinted eyes onto him, but that angry furrow between your brows weakened as you took in the image of him propped up on one elbow to look down at you. 

The warm, honeyed lamp-light caught the ends of his mess of blond hair. It was unrulier than usual, sticking up in odd directions from sleep.

He was still tired— blinking slowly, as if his eyelids were too heavy. The usual harsh lines of his face looked almost uncharacteristically soft, but his gaze was weighted with something unspoken.

Guilt twisted inside your chest. 

He was awake because of you. On a work night.

You looked away when he finally spoke up again.

"It's 3 AM. Don't bullshit with me." 

"I'm not bullshitting, Katsuki," you reasoned, wishing you could just sink back into the mattress and not have to deal with this. "I'm… this just happens sometimes. Go back to sleep."

You tried to turn your head the other way, but he caught you by the cheek, pushed your face towards him with a firm hand to make you look at him again.

His jaw was clenched tight as he focused in on your face, took in your sunken eyes, the quiet exhaustion dampening your expression.

You knew he hated when you got like this, all dismissive and stubborn, a mirror of him.

"Don't do that shit." He bit out, his brand of harsh concern. "Not with me."

"I'm not doing anyth—"

"Don't be a fuckin' hard ass, alright? Talk."

"I can't sleep! Okay? Is that what you wanted to hear? That I can't fucking sleep? I just can't! I close my eyes, I try... but I can't! And it's—"

You came to a stop the moment you realized the increasing volume of your voice. You reeled back into yourself, embarrassed of your own outburst.

Turning from his hold, you opted to look up at the ceiling, dragging a hand down your face with a deep, shaky sigh.

"Sorry," you murmured. "This is so stupid. But seriously, I'm good."

You didn't spare him a look before turning your back to him with finality, knowing that if you met his eyes — so focused on you, attentive as ever — it would all come pouring over. 

Your throat was tight as you spoke. You hoped he couldn’t tell.

"Sleep, Katsuki. It's late. Don't wanna keep you up, too."

Just when you thought he would give it up, let you deal with this miserable situation by yourself like you always did, he shifted— sat up, pulled back your blanket off of you with a single, harsh tug.

You groaned at the lost warmth, looking at him confused.

"Kats—?!"

He cut you off.

"You tried everything, huh?"

Something about the way he said it — rough and challenging — made your heart spike. He was up to something, but what? You were too exhausted to figure it out, so you offered him a weak answer.

"…Yes?"

"Right."

With one swift motion, he pushed your thighs apart. The outline of his broad shoulders rose from between your legs, thick biceps flexing as he brought your thighs around his waist.

Your legs tightened around him on instinct, bringing him closer as he hovered over you, supporting himself with two steady arms at your side.

You blinked up at him, wondering if he could feel the flustered heat radiating off of your face from being this close.

"W-What're you doing?"

"Helping."

When you continued to just blink back at him at that lackluster answer, a single brow raising slowly, he elaborated with a soft grunt.

"Said you're not sleepy, yeah?"

"… Yeah?"

"Cumming makes you sleepy." all blunt, matter of fact.

Your brows twisted.

"What?" The heat burning your cheeks crawled up to the tips of your ears as your eyes widened incredulously.

It was in his nature to say things as they were, crude and direct, but it still caught you off guard at times, especially over something like this. For someone who got flustered fairly easily, he sure had his moments.

"C'mon. Don't tell me you don't know it." His palm smoothed over your inner thigh, the rough callouses and scars familiar, warm against your soft skin. Careful in a way only you got to see. "Every time we fuck you're out like a light."

"Oh."

"Yeah." he murmured, a little smug. "Tried that?"

You shot him a look. "Obviously not, asshole."

He only chuckled softly, tilting your face up to meet his, kissing the glare right off of your face. His lips moved against yours, slow and intentional.

A soft warmth bloomed behind your ribs as you kissed him back tiredly, letting his movements guide you.

You brought careful hands to rest over his muscled chest, palms slowly sliding up, fingers brushing over the raised, jagged skin of the scar over his heart.

You wrapped your arms around his neck lazily, uncaring that they felt like lead, just wanting him closer to you as your fists curled into the soft hair at his nape.

He pulled back barely an inch, breathing a question against your lips, "You wanna try that?" before kissing you again.

Your brows creased, any semblance of an answer faded into a soft moan against him.

"C'mon, baby," he murmured, pulling back properly this time to kiss up your throat, mouth lingering against your skin.

Baby. He was calling you baby. Because he knew you loved it, knew it turned you to mush— hearing him, always so crude and unapologetic about it, refer to you so sweetly.

A shaky sigh slipped past you as he brought a large hand to the back of your neck, curving it toward him. His kisses turned to gently sucking soft marks and you shuddered, fighting a whine.

"Quit bein' difficult." he huffed, breathe hot against you. "Lemme take care of it."

He brought his face back to watch you like a hound, waiting for your confirmation.

Amidst catching your breath, you contemplated, pursing your lips in thought.

"I… I mean, it doesn't hurt to try?"

It was true, you hadn't tried this 'method' to sleep and part of you was curious whether it would work or not.

But, it was a work night, and despite your desperation and weariness, you knew that this whole ordeal would get in the way of and the strict schedule Katsuki kept to optimize his health and performance. 

He ate well, took part in rigid physical training; mandatory for the powerhouse of a man that stood at number 5 in the pro-hero rankings.

Like clockwork, he woke up at 6 AM, went out there and worked himself to the bone, put his body on the line, and unless the circumstances were dire (either he couldn’t sleep because of dreams of the past or he had missions that demanded later hours) he turned into bed at 8 pm without fail.

From all the years you had known him, you knew that Katsuki was particular about his habits. 

But amidst your guilt, you were forgetting that he was also particular about you.

You had wormed into his heart, became something of an exception for him in many regards. But you couldn't see that now, not with the worry and weariness eating away inside you.

Your half-lidded eyes searched his, a soft crease forming between your brows as you looked up at him.

"... Do you want to, though? I don't wanna keep you up, or… or like make you do thi—"

He cut you off with a scoff, cocking his head in disbelief as if that was possibly the stupidest thing you could have said to him.

"Don't be an idiot, alright?" he pushed closer with a scoff, nose brushing yours. "If that's the shit you're worryin' about, don't."

His eyes darted down to your mouth, watching as you chewed on your bottom lip, voice lower; softer.

"Always fuckin' 'want to'."

You took in his words, blinking back the small sting in the corners of your eyes.

Katsuki didn't do pity, never did anything he didn't want to. And right now, he had nothing but undeniable want written all over his face.

There was something ravenous behind those irises, that fiery red sharp and determined in a way that had your stomach flipping.

"Okay," you decided with a slow nod, a small smile settling over your face. "We can try."

A self-satisfied smirk stretched across his face before he nodded back, eyes fluttering shut as he leaned down to peck your lips. His hands found your waist, sliding up your sides as he deepened the kiss. 

You gasped slightly as they wandered up under your shirt, rough hands smoothing over the curve of your breasts, feeling the weight of them in his palms— giving them a firm, testing squeeze.

He kept your mouth parted with his, slipping his tongue against yours in a careful rhythm.

You made a muffled sound against his lips when his thumbs brushed over your nipples, back arching just enough to tell him you wanted more.

Katsuki pulled back, the small string of saliva between your lips breaking as he began to lift up the fabric of your shirt.

"Arms up."

You complied, raising your arms over your head.

Those blazing eyes narrowed, a subtle furrow forming between his brows— you always thought he looked gorgeous when he was focused, and being the center of that unwavering attention always had your mind spinning.

With a final tug, he pulled your shirt off, watching as your nipples hardened, exposed to the chill of your room.

His eyes locked with yours as he leaned down, pressed a wet kiss to your chest.

Your legs wrapped around his waist again as he cupped both your breasts with his hands, took his time pecking around the soft flesh. It was only when you huffed quietly that he chuckled, giving you a long, slow lick over your nipple.

He ran his thumb back and forth over the other, pinching the taut peak between his index and thumb as he sucked one into his mouth, the subtle scrape of his teeth drawing out a small, strangled sound from you as he nipped at your chest.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, keeping him in place.

An involuntary whine slipped past you when he pulled back from your chest with a soft pop, his hot mouth switching to the other one, the whole process repeating until you were breathless— gasping incoherent strings of what vaguely sounded like his name, nails raking down the expanse of his broad upper back.

He drew back at last to take in the picture of you; soft lips parted as you panted, a glistening sheen over your chest, dazed eyes blinking up at him— silently asking for more as they darted between his face and the obvious clothed bulge pressing against your core.

You thought he’d get straight to it, tug down his boxers and give you what he knew you wanted, but it seemed he had a different idea. 

Pulling back between your legs, he lowered himself to your heat slowly, peppering sloppy kisses from your calf down to your inner thighs. When he finally pressed his lips right over your clothed clit, you groaned softly, head sinking back into your pillow.

His tongue peeked out to give your clit a little lick over your panties; warm and slow and wet.

You whimpered, thighs instinctively tightening around his head as you sighed out his name, wanting to melt.

"Katsuki…"

"You're always so pretty, y'know that?" he breathed out before kissing you over the cotton again, watching the damp spot grow darker under the soft amber lamp-light. "Shit drives me fucking crazy."

You drew in a shaky breath, ears burning.

You weren't exactly what you'd call pretty, right now. Your hair was very likely a mess, eyes red and heavy. And up until he had taken it off, all you had on was an old oversized shirt that had seen better days. Your panties weren’t much better; plain, save for the small bow at the center.

But the way he said it still made your heart flutter— as if, despite all of that, you were pretty to him.

You couldn’t gauge how your body looked, what he could see of you, and you were too tired to try and figure it out. But the uncertainty was enough to have you breathing out a small scoff.

"Don't just say that."

The corner of his lip curled back like you had just offended him to the highest degree.

"Y'know I never just say shit." he barked back.

Maybe you had, in a way. Because he really, really didn't. He never said anything he didn't mean when it mattered, especially not to you.

You bit your lip as his finger hooked under the hem of your underwear, his eyes asking you a silent question. 

You nodded slowly, lifting your hips for him. He moved swiftly, slipping off the last piece of fabric shielding you from him.  

He stared down at your bare heat shamelessly. Drank in how your wetness glistened under the soft light, the way your legs twitched slightly as if you were fighting the instinct to close them at his intense, unwavering gaze.

He traced a line down your slit with just a finger, relishing the small sound that drew out of you. His gaze met yours as he parted your folds with two fingers and leaned down, mouth hovering right over your pulsing core.

You watched with shallow breaths, eyes locked with his as he gathered spit in his mouth, letting a hot glob drop slowly onto your pussy. You groaned when he dragged the flat of his tongue over your clit, mixing it with your arousal.

He moaned into you, "Taste so fuckin' good…"

His tongue drew circles around your sensitive nub; so diligent, so thorough.

Like with everything, he gave it his all, didn't quit until he was satisfied. His method tonight was torturous, a slow pace that dragged out each sensation almost unbearably to ease you into that blissed out haze that'd surely knock you out.

He'd barely gotten started, and you were already panting, mind slowly slipping into that pleasure-drunk state.

Your fists curled around the sheets when he sucked your clit softly, just to hear your breathy whines, smiling against you as you keened.

Katsuki Bakugou was known for his mouth. Snappy, explosive, unforgiving. It was what had drawn you to him in the first place, how he never held back.

But this mouth was the one only you got to know. Still relentless, unyielding, just a little mean— but it felt like devotion when he lapped at your leaking mess, fingers digging into your plush thighs to keep you in place as you squirmed.

You reached a hand down, let your fingers card through his soft hair before giving it a small tug. That earned you a groan, the deep rumble muffled against your dripping heat.

He licked a long stripe up your slit— wet, sloppy. Piercing eyes watching your face as he found your entrance, fucked you with his tongue before replacing it with two thick fingers, gathering your wetness before slowly pushing them in. 

You groaned as he worked you up to the stretch, pushed them in knuckle deep.

Savoring the stuttering rise and fall of your chest, he slowly started to pump them in and out. Your eyes fluttered shut, head sinking back into your pillow as his fingers filled you up, curling against that familiar spot— a slow, deep pleasure building each time he hit it just right.

You wanted to cave, melt, maybe sob.

You were so close— you could feel it… just a little more…

But… there was this feeling sitting heavy in your chest, winding up tight around your heart.

You made a noticeable attempt to keep your sounds down as your mind began to race again, your focus drifting away from him as a question resounded your head— you should've already finished by now, right?

Katsuki was doing everything right, touching you perfectly, like he always did. He should be done dealing with you. But you hadn't finished yet, he was still going at it.

Your lower lip trembled. Maybe you were too tired, too caught up in your own exhaustion to cum, but something was holding you back. And If you really couldn't finish, then this would all be pointless, wouldn't it? You'd have wasted both of your time for nothing.

Before the worry could fully cloud your head, Katsuki gave your thigh a firm pat.

You looked down with a start; eyes half-lidded, unfocused.

"There you are." He muttered. "Eyes on me, got it? Hell’s the matter?"

Even when he was concerned, his brashness clung to him.

His care was rough around the edges, imperfect, but it was all his intent. He wanted to be careful with you, you could see it in his eyes, how they were just focused and just soft enough for you to detect.

Even if he didn't know exactly how to do it just right, he tried. Because you mattered. You meant something to him.

He lifted his face just enough for you to know you had his attention, stilled his movements and gave your thigh a small squeeze, a silent prompt to tell him what was wrong.

You couldn't look away if you wanted to, even as you felt your eyes sting— not when he was looking at you like that.

You gnawed at your bottom lip; embarrassed, ashamed.

"I can't."

He raised a brow. "Can't what?"

You let out an exasperated breath. 

"Can't… can’t cum. I can't, feel like— I dunno, something's wrong with me, Katsuki, I'm—" 

"Get outta your head." he cut off your babbling sharply. You whimpered when he started moving his fingers again, tongue coming down to drag over your clit at the same time. "Nothing's fuckin' wrong with you. I know you can."

His unshaken confidence in you was enough to draw out a soft groan, but his mouth and fingers working in tandem to build back that tightening warmth inside you was what had your back arching off the bed, eyes screwing shut as the pressure above your belly wound tighter and tighter. 

That heaviness in your shoulders slowly melted as he picked up the pace, the worry and doubt wrapped tight in your chest loosened and faded steadily, the sweet promise of eventual euphoria taking over your senses.

Quick, shallow breaths escaped your lungs as you brokenly mumbled his name, bucking your hips against his mouth, squeezing around his head with your legs. Your hands found his hair again, pulling without a care as he nearly doubled his efforts.

With a choked out sob, you finally came, the fingers curled in his hair tightening just a bit more one last time before going lax.

You could feel him smiling against your core as you came down; proud, a little cocky, but above all, happy to be lost in the taste of you.

He kissed you through it, mouth unrelenting against your pussy even as your thighs spasmed and trembled, working you down from your orgasm.

With a final kiss over your clit, he finally pulled back, wiping the mixture of his saliva and your slick off the bottom half of his face lazily, like he didn't actually care whether it was there or not.

Shifting, he hovered over you, crimson eyes locking with yours, reading you silently with the same rapt attention he had out on the battlefield.

A light sheen of sweat was cast over his muscled arms at your sides, the highs of his cheeks were flushed a soft pink, spikes of blond hanging messily over his forehead.

"Still with me?"

His voice was gravelly, a smoky rasp. Just a little breathless, but the satisfaction in his eyes told you he'd have it no other way.

You attempted an response, still panting heavily.

"Mhm…"

"Not an answer, baby."

"..Yes. Thank you."

He leaned down to kiss you, you moaned softly at the taste of yourself off of his lips.

Pulling back, he trained his serious eyes on yours. "Don't thank me for that shit."

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize either." You managed a snort at how impossible he was being as he continued. "Feelin' sleepy?" You hummed. "Yeah. A little."

He blinked once, scanning your face. Then grunted. "Not good enough."

"Katsuki, it's okay, you've done enou—"

"I told you, 'm gonna take care of it. Yeah?"

With his hands on the underside of your thighs, he pulled your legs around his waist, his hardened cock pressing over your still-drooling pussy, hot and heavy despite the single layer of fabric between you both.

Your heart picked up again; voice small, airy.

"Yeah…"

"Gonna let me, right?"

You whined. "But I just—"

"I know," he shushed you, slowly moving his hips, grinding himself against you agonizingly. "You can gimme another."

"Mh.."

Your lips pursed, brows pinched.

It could feel nice. It would feel nice.

You had warmed up to the idea, hips lifting just slightly to push against him as he moved, a quiet, nearly imperceptible motion.

He noticed, like he always did, but still, he wanted to draw it out of you.

"C'mon, gotta say it." his voice was a half-tease, low and coaxing, yet that mocking undertone never left. "Can only do it if you say it."

You groaned, embarrassed heat crawling up your neck.

He always did this—made you say it out loud, full-well knowing how it embarrassed you.

It was as though he lived to see you get heated, got something out of watching your lips curl and twitch in your attempts to fight your own discomposure.

"Can give you 'nother," you practically huffed out. "Jus' fuck me, please. Wanna feel you."

He smiled down at you, pleased with himself, and before you could even think to roll your eyes at that smug expression, he began to shuffle out of his boxers, freeing his aching cock.

He brought it to rest right over your pussy as he settled between your legs.

His eyes said look, and you did, took in his thick length, the angry flush of his leaking head, the precum dripping onto your navel.

He wanted you to see just how deep he would go, wanted you to really take it in. 

You felt yourself get wetter, feeling empty at just the sight— he reached just below your belly button. 

"You ready?"

Slowly, he dragged his tip between your folds. You let out a small, choked sound, nodding as your hips involuntarily bucked up to chase more.

"Uh huh. Please, please."

Katsuki’s abs tensed as he finally positioned himself just right, pushing into your tight warmth with gritted teeth, biting back the moan threatening to slip past.

He took his sweet time, going inch by agonizing inch, all the while your chest heaved as he stretched you out, filled the emptiness that had you aching.

When he finally bottomed out, panting, you clenched around him, whimpering slightly.

He let out a guttural sound; something low, ragged, already wrecked.

"Don't…" he breathed, voice cracking slightly. "Don't fuckin' do that."

"Sorry…"

"Told you not to do that either."

With a shaky breath, he began to move. Careful rolls of his hips, a hand splayed over your stomach as he eased himself in deep.

You stuttered out his name as that same hand moved lower, stopping right where your bodies met, the pad of his thumb slowly rubbing your clit. 

His eyes fluttered as he watched your head fall back against your pillow, panting as he eased into a languid rhythm, angling his hips with each thrust in search of that spot.

When he found it, you keened, toes curling, lips parting as you let out a moan.

"Katsuki…" you dragged out the end of his name, practically whining.

He only grunted, something like a strangled whimper managing to slip past his gritted teeth. "Yeah, I know, I fuckin' know…"

He continued to thrust slowly, pull all the way back out before pushing back in, intense scarlet eyes watching your face twist upon each intrusion.

You didn't notice his thumb had been brushing the plush of your lower lip before he tapped it.

"Open."

That was all he said. He knew he didn't need much for you to listen. You looked down at his hand, then back up, parting your lips on command, the pink of your tongue peaking out on instinct.

"There we go…" He murmured, slipping his index and middle finger into your waiting mouth slowly.

The weight of his thick digits settled over your tongue and you groaned, sucking gently.

"You like that?" He asked, watching your mouth work around his fingers softly, voice low.

He already knew you liked it, knew that it lulled you into a fuzzy, brainless haze. But he loved to see you nod back at him; that pliant, sweet look in your half-lidded eyes as you offered him soft 'mhm' around his fingers.

He fought the moan crawling up his throat, instead letting out a tight a chuckle.

"Yeah, I know you do."

When he pulled his fingers back, you whimpered, but didn't get to dwell on it for long.

He moved to cage you down, supporting himself by the forearms, groaning into your ear as he bucked his hips deeper into you, pace noticeably faster.

You threw your head back. It was so good, perfect even. But you still wanted to feel more of him.

"Closer…" You asked, a quiet whine behind your words. "Closer, please, baby. Need you closer, Katsuki…"

Katsuki loved missionary, you knew this. He loved that it meant he could get close, actually see you— watch as your face twisted from being filled by him.

But on nights when close wasn't close enough, he folded you in half, pressed himself impossibly deeper, brought you closer than you thought you could ever feel.

The second he realized what you were asking for, he pushed the backs of your thighs, pressed your knees up by your head.

You hooked your arms around his neck, he kissed the the hinge of your jaw, breathing desperate words against your neck.

“Fuck, I love you.”

You bit back a groan, feeling him trail sloppy kisses down to your collarbone.

“Y’know that, right?”

You were shaking, letting out breathy moans as he began to suck soft marks into your skin, lost in the feeling— the taste— of you.

Your hands slid to hold the back of his neck, pulling him back carefully. Your nose bumped his as you held his face, felt the sharp curve of his jaw in your palms.

Hand finding one of his by your head, you laced your fingers with his, gave his hand a soft squeeze before softly pecking his lips. "I love you," you pulled back just to murmur the words against his mouth before pulling him back feverishly, moaning into the kiss. "I love you so much."

He picked up his pace at those words, fucking into you desperately, "Can't believe you thought I didn't wanna do this shit…" He panted out.

"Always fuckin' want you, don't y'get it?" his voice was already deep. but now— rough from sleep and want, the rasp made you impossibly wetter.

The sound of your creaking bed and the soft slap of skin against skin faded into the background as he leaned down to kiss you, all messy and raw.

"Tell me you get it." the words heaved out of him, hot and breathy, his lidded eyes met yours, the blistering need behind them setting your skin ablaze.

"I get it," you managed, tugging him closer, holding him against your chest. "I get it, Katsuki, please—"

He groaned by your ear, "Fuck, I know. I got you…"

Suddenly, nothing else seemed to matter. Everything that had weighed on your heart— the frustration, the doubt, the unsureness in yourself. it dissolved to nothingness in the back of your mind— because Katsuki Bakugou loved you. You loved him.

You could feel it all around you; he was everywhere, everything. And part of you felt that was all you might ever need.

With a broken sound, you came, burying into the crook of his neck.

He breathed with you for a moment, held you close, heated sweat-slicked skin against yours. He pulled out carefully, gritting his teeth to bite back a groan.

You were caught off guard when he hooked your thighs over his shoulders, leaned down to lap up your spend— his grip was a vice, absolutely not letting go of you— his fervent mouth moving against your sensitive heat to stimulate you past what you thought was bliss.

You nudged at his face half-heartedly, too tired to even whine; shallow, broken sobs heaved out of you as your thighs twitching around his head.

It was too much, you told him as much. At least, you tried to. You weren't sure if he could make anything out of your nonsensical babbling between whimpers, but you were certain he didn't really care.

When your hands found his hair, you twisted the blond in your fists, letting out a final cry as he pushed you over the edge one last time.

He lifted his head back, lingering for a beat, careful eyes taking you in. Your eyes were shut, relishing the aftershock of your own high as your lungs raced to catch onto air, but more importantly: you were completely fucked out.

With a small kiss to your inner thigh, he got up.

"Where're you going…?” you managed between breaths, feeling his presence on your bed go missing, eyes opening just enough to peek at him.

 “Clean underwear. Water."

"Oh."

"Mhm."

You felt like you might pass out in the best way possible. Your eyes were so droopy, but you tried your best to keep them open.

You traced the line of Katsuki's back as he shuffles through your drawers. Something soft and warm branched out from behind your sternum, spread through your body.

Suddenly, you wanted nothing more than to hold him in your arms. Feel his body curve against yours.

He uncapped a bottle of water from your dresser and held it out for you, watching intently as you sat up shakily and took careful sips.

You handed it back to him, wiping at your mouth as he moved back onto your bed, tugging on a clean pair of underwear over your legs. 

"You shoulda kept goin' Katsuki…" You tried to sound harsh, scolding. But it came out softer than you wanted. "You didn't… y'know…"

He pulled the blanket over your body and his quietly, settling at your side. You watched as he laid his head to rest on his pillow, taking in the familiar lines of his face.

"Don't care." He flicked your forehead. "Think too much and I might have to fuck you to sleep again."

Your lower lip jutted at that, a small flush settling over your face.

Reaching an arm out, you drew him closer to you. Your heart swelled at the familiarity of his warmth, that longing in you satiated momentarily at the feeling.

Your hand found the side of his face, thumb brushing over the unscarred side of his face. You always loved that scar on his right cheek, thought it made him look handsome.

A small smile touched your face as you leaned in to press your lips over it, even though his other cheek was much easier to kiss. You liked to do that whenever you got the chance.

"Hey, Katsuki?" You hummed, brushing some of his hair back.

"What?"

Fondness curled inside your chest at his voice; it came quick because it was soft. Because he had softened himself, for you.

"Thank you."

He blinked back at you before, "Tch." then leaning forward to peck your lips.

"Told you to stop doin' that."

You could only chuckle, letting his large hand find the back of your head, pulling you down to cradle you against the warm, solid planes of his chest.

"Sleep."

You yawned, smiling as you pressed your cheek closer against his skin.

"I'll make it up in the morning, 'kay?" You mumbled, the thrum of his heart easing your limbs, his strong arms curled around you tighter. "Promise."

Katsuki snorted softly, running a hand up and down your back, careful and soothing as he tucked you under his chin, adjusting the blanket around you to make sure you were properly warm.

"'M sure you will."

★ IMPORTANT — the amazing art in the header is not mine! unfortunately, i was not able to find the artist to give adequate credit, so this is my disclaimer !! all i did was edit the coloring.

may blabs: hellooo guys

im still learning how to write smut so this was kiiinda stressful, but also pretty fun !! love me some acts of service solution oriented katsuki ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹 and i like emotions ^_^

he has been with reader for a While that is why he is comfortable w this lvl of touch & tenderness. (tried to imply this by showing they live tg + share bed lmao)

while i don’t think he’d start off being rough or anything, he’d probably be more tense and… hesitant if it were earlier in the rls yk ? he’s pretty touch averse in canon 🤔

btw title is from the marías song !!! #peak

also wait bkg not getting to nut lowk a recurring pattern now im dead (will he ever get to bust? stay tuned)

taglist: @kamislop , @yameheartzzz , @aera-777 , @pandalover-valen , @ahallucination420 , @sparkkkyy , @talilosha , @ludic-art-k , @cupiditee , @spidermanlover3000 , @kwonminsoyeon , @lildidi , @annexblogs , @iv-vee , @sheltertoken , @starroll121 , @ipukegiltters , @keijisprettygirl , @sunnyjade4 , @blurpleuni-squid , @claymoreshaze , @chloesfinalproject , @ochaluvr , @5-st4rrr , @updownandbatty , @gaylittleboi69 , @randiiii , @marimars132 , @miminist , @everlasting-everlong , @l3viathanpup , @vr00m-vr00m , @eijiromelissa12 , @thescarlettfiles , @dizzytyrant , @ravenhood2792 , @imstressed17 , @sunnygurl713 , @cattyyyyy , @justamewithherweirdlife , @bakedbeansplease , @whimsycupid , @sleepyknight1225 , @ghoulerbeing , @cinnacai , wolf-ish , @z444r , @swakoko , @deeplightgarden , @artistic-endchamber 𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ :

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[lostartnerd]

Get Back To You (Sanji x Reader)

Summary: Sanji was mere feet away when Kuma launched you away from him. It's a long two years before he gets you back.

Warnings: hmmm i don't think there's any

Author’s Note: based on this request! i missed writing Sanji!! apologies for the delay in getting this written, hoping it was worth the wait

Masterlist here!

Word Count: 5.0k

Likes and comments are much appreciated! Do not repost anywhere! Works will be posted from my ao3 account soon.

Sanji’s thumbs slowly ease off the triggers, heart swelling as he listens to you laugh next to him. He only goes full pressure again once your water line is well above his. The buzzer goes off. His arms are already open as you jump into them. “I told you, Sanji! You can’t beat me at carnival games!” 

He smiles at you, pressing a kiss to your temple as you turn to the game host. “Pick your prize, my love.” You point towards a small red lobster. The host grabs it and hands it over to you. You happily hold it up for Sanji to look at, the sparkle in your eyes meeting the confusion in his. 

His arm wraps around your waist, guiding you towards the next game. “Why a lobster, sweetheart?” 

“Because lobsters fall in love and mate for life. Like us.” Sanji finally raises a hand to hold it. “When we get to Fishman Island, we should look for old lobster couples, walking around holding claws.” You giggle and Sanji swears he falls in love all over again. 

Sanji holds onto your little lobster, the one you picked because you were thinking about him, for the next handful of games you both play. 

It’s not long before you end up in line for the ferris wheel. “We need to have fun on the islands we visit more often.” 

“I agree. I don’t get to take you out enough, princess.” The line moves and you both get closer to the front, one group before you get to go on. 

Your gondola arrives and the previous riders step out. Sanji steps in front of you and holds out his hand to help you onto the still rocking surface. You step inside and hold your hand out for him, giving him the same help he just gave you. 

“You don’t have to do that, my love.” He smiles and red dusts his cheeks as he sits next to you, his arm going around your shoulders. 

“I know I don’t have to, you handsome dork, but I want to.” You rest your head against his shoulder, settling into the gentle rocking of the gondola. “I love you, Sanji.” 

He doesn’t have time to respond before you jump up, pointing down towards the ground. “Hey look, it’s the game I beat you at earlier!” You laugh as you turn back to him. 

He fakes offense and lifts the small lobster up near the edge. “Look there, buddy, it’s your first home.” 

You pout as your hand lands on his wrist, the other one grabbing the front of the lobster. “Don’t drop our child.” 

Your brows furrow as your eyes meet. Sanji’s widen as he tightens his grip on the lobster. “I would never drop our child.” The determination on his face makes you laugh. 

You’re both quiet as the ferris wheel stops, leaving you at the top. Sanji watches you, hearts in his eyes, as you look out. “We can see the entire archipelago from here.” Your voice is quiet, soft enough that it warms his heart. 

Looking back at him, the smile that appears on your face matches the soft one on his. You bite back a laugh as you look down at the lobster. “I don’t think it’s safe for Snapster to be hanging out this high.” You try to force a serious face as your eyes move up to Sanji’s. 

“Oh no, definitely not safe for Snapster up here.” Your smile grows as you watch Sanji safely tuck Snapster into his front pocket. “He’s all safe now.” 

Sanji’s hands are still near Snapster, still slowly looking up to you, when your hands land on his face. You whisper, feeling like it’s the loudest sound in the world this high up. “I love you, Sanji.” 

His face lights up, his hands gently landing on your waist. “I love you, (y/n).” A soft smile tugs at his lips as he lets you pull him in. Your lips meet in a soft and slow kiss, both of you savoring the moment until the ferris wheel moves again. 

Laughter erupts from both of you as you fall into Sanji’s lap. “I guess it’s not safe for us up here either.” The twinkle in his eyes meets yours. 

Once your gondola is back on the ground, you step out first, holding a hand out for Sanji to follow. His cheeks are dusted pink as he squeezes your hand and lets you lead him further through the park. 

Only one more game gets played, Sanji smiling as he watches you beat him again, before you both hear the sounds of a battle breaking out. 

“You don’t think…?” You slowly turn to Sanji, reaching out to grab his hand again as he leads you towards the noise. 

“Yep. That’s definitely our circus and our monkeys.” You sigh as Sanji drags you back towards your crew. Can’t even have one day off. 

The crew is quickly gathered and Usopp lets you and Sanji know what just happened. The navy is here and they have new machines they are using to fight pirates. Luffy decides the crew needs to split up, you can all meet back at the ship in three days. 

Sanji’s hands are on your face, gently cupping your cheeks as you look into his eyes. You’re both looking through tears as you speak. “Keep Snapster safe, Sanji. We have to show him his new home in three days.” 

“I will, sweetheart. Snapster is safe with me.” A small smile ghosts past your lips as Sanji kisses your forehead. “I’ll see you in three days. Stay safe for me, my love.” 

“I will. Stay safe for me, my handsome dork.” He cracks a small smile. 

“Always.” Sanji’s hands drop off your face as he pulls you into a hug that you quickly return. 

Usopp yells your name, reaching towards you. “C’mon, we gotta go!” 

Sanji’s hand lingers in yours as Nami starts to pull him away. You give him one last squeeze and a small smile as you both head in opposite directions. It’s only three days. We’ll be okay. 

Sanji pushes Snapster deeper into his pocket, making sure the lobster is secure as he runs after Nami and Franky. Usopp pulls you with as he follows Zoro and Brook. 

Kuma, the machine the marines sent after your crew, comes to your group first. Zoro pushes you all behind him as he takes on the fight. It looks like he’s winning until Kuma hits Zoro and you all watch your crewmate disappear. “Zoro!!” 

A few blocks away, Sanji recognizes your scream. “Nami, Franky, we have to go help them.” They both quickly agree as Brook’s name is screamed next. 

Sanji gets to the block you and Usopp are at quickly enough that he watches Kuma approach Usopp. He watches his crewmate disappear into thin air. Nami slams into his back as his eyes move to you. 

You’re staring at the space in front of you. The space Usopp was just occupying. Entirely frozen in place. You don’t move until Sanji screams your name. He’s running towards you. Not even ten feet away. He’s so close. He can get to you. Your eyes turn to meet his. You start to run, screaming his name. The desperation in both of your voices shakes the archipelago as you scream for each other. We can’t be separated. Not like this. Please don’t take me from him.

Kuma approaches you. Hitting you and making you disappear only a foot from Sanji. If he was half a second faster. If he didn’t tell Nami and Franky to follow when he heard you. He could’ve made it. He could’ve saved you. He’s stuck. Hands holding the space you were just in. Tears streaming down his face. 

Nami screams his name, watching in horror as Kuma hits him next. Her and Franky run, not knowing what to do after five crew members just disappeared. 

-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-

On the day the crew was supposed to meet back up on the Thousand Sunny, you finally slam into the ground. Or you slam into a couple people. More than a couple, really. There’s loud music all around you and the crowd lifts you up like people fall out of the sky every day. You’re pushed around as everyone dances, tears streaming down your face as you try to figure out where you are. 

Everytime you spot a wall and try to pull yourself out of the crowd, someone pushes you back in. Hands all over your body, keeping you from getting free. Keeping you from figuring out where you landed. Keeping you from a moment to breathe. A moment to process. A moment to wish Sanji was here. 

The sun was high in the sky when you crashed onto this island. It’s starting to disappear beyond the horizon as you collapse. Knees slam into the concrete. Head falls into your lap. Hands cover your ears. Sobs shake your body. 

“Hey, is that one of the Straw Hats?” Arms wrap around your waist, lifting you off the ground before they carry you out of the crowd. You’re set back on the ground. Slowing moving your arms down, your eyes slowly move up the body of the person who saved you. Black work boots, blue pants, yellow shirt, cigar in his mouth. Paulie.  

You blink a few times. Slowly looking around to see if you didn’t recognize Water Seven. 

He squats down to your level, waiting for your eyes to focus on his face. “Why are you in San Faldo?” 

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to figure out what happened. “We were on Saboady, fighting the navy. I don’t know how I got here. We were attacked and I just landed in the middle of this party a few hours ago I think.” Paulie’s face is neutral as he processing everything you tell him. “Is this Water Seven?” 

He shakes his head. “It’s an island on the Sea Train route. Do you want to come back to Water Seven with me? We can figure out what happened and how to get you back to your crew.” 

You nod, taking his outstretched hand to help you up. Unknowingly, you travel closer to Sanji as you and Paulie take the sea train to Water Seven. 

-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-

Sanji lands on Momoiro Island and he lands hard. Groans spill from his lips as he makes sure he can still feel his whole body. His hand quickly flies up, making sure Snapster is still safely in his pocket. He lets out a sigh before opening his eyes and sitting up. 

His fear is immediate as he looks up to the large amount of okamas looking down at him. Snapster is slowly further secured in his pocket before he’s up and running. He runs the entire length of the island, looking and searching. Hoping he can find you. He hits the shore for the sixth time and collapses onto himself as the okamas close in. 

He screams out towards the ocean. Tears streaming down his face. Where are you, my love? His heart falls to the pit of his stomach as its contents empty onto the beach. He falls, landing hard on his back as every tiny piece of his broken heart falls into the sand. 

-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-

Iceberg meets you and Paulie at the station on Water Seven with a huge smile and a quick hug. “Welcome back, (y/n). What brings you here?” 

You recount the story as you told it to Paulie, adding in extra details you didn’t think of before. Both men have pity in their eyes as they listen. 

“I’m so sorry. You are more than welcome to stay here on Water Seven until you can find your crew and safely return to them.” Iceberg gives you a small supportive smile. “I can find you a place to stay, we may have an extra room in-” 

“She can stay with me. I have a spare room.” Paulie cuts Iceberg off before quickly turning to you. “If that’s okay with you.” 

Giving him a small nod, you give him an even smaller smile. “Just until I can get back to my crew. I promise.” 

“Stay as long as you need.” 

-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-

A few weeks later, a News Coo flies by Paulie’s house, dropping a newspaper by the door. Paulie gets up from the table to grab it, eyes wide as he walks back towards you. He pulls the cigar out of his mouth, letting you know the breaking news before tossing you the paper. “Your captain directly challenged the authority of the marines.” 

Your eyes widen to match his as you take the paper and read it. Straw Hat Luffy is alive! Sixteen rings for the New World at Marineford. Spotting the writing on his arm, you turn back to Paulie. “Is it alright if I stay here for two years?” 

“Of course.” 

It’s not long before you and Paulie get into a routine of the news over breakfast, working all day at the shipyard, and dinners with Iceberg. He quickly trains you into a shipwright worthy of working at the Galley-La company, and worthy of sailing with the future king of the pirates. 

Most days, you happily follow Paulie’s lead. Working hard to prove your worth in the shipyard. 

Most nights, you can’t sleep. Sitting up on the bed in the room Paulie lets you call home. Tears streaming down your face as you struggle to get a wink of sleep. Struggling to get comfy. Struggling to get your mind to rest. Your thoughts are on Sanji. On all the adventures you had. On all the love you share. On the home you created in your cabin on the Thousand Sunny. 

Most nights you wish you could fold the Grand Line in half so that you could be with him again. 

-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-

One island over in Paradise, Sanji gets the newspaper. He sees Luffy’s message. He accepts the two year wait if that’s what Luffy needs. His heart shatters. He cries as he thinks about spending the next two years without you. Snapster comes out of his pocket and up to his lips. We didn’t even get to show Snapster his new home, my love. 

The okamas don’t give Sanji the space he needs to grieve this lost time with you. The further he runs, the more he’s chased, the more he’s cornered, he gets stronger with each passing day. Constantly training as he constantly runs. He checks no less than every five minutes to make sure he still has Snapster. To make sure he didn’t lose the one part of you he got to take with him. 

He sleeps up a tree, in the safety of the branches, where the okama won’t find him and won’t chase him. He sleeps, or says he does. He hasn’t slept a wink since Sabaody. Since he watched you disappear right in front of his eyes. When you were almost within reach before you were gone. When he almost had you in his arms before he can’t hold you for two years. Throughout their nights on Momoiro Island, Snapster gets more and more soaked in Sanji’s tears. 

-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-

During a nightly dinner with Iceberg and Paulie, you share the adventures your crew has gone on since leaving Water Seven. Updating them on how Franky’s doing as they happily listen, both excited to hear about their old friend. 

Iceberg’s face softens as you sidebar into cute stories about Sanji, telling them about all the side quests he lets you join on each island, giving you both a chance to adventure by yourself together. 

“I can tell you miss him. It’s always been clear you love each other.” Iceberg sets his hand on the table near you, giving you a silent opening to reach out if you need to. 

Your hand lands on his, giving it a small squeeze as you give him a small smile. “I really miss him. I miss the whole crew. Two years is a long time.” 

The two men give you small nods, Iceberg squeezing your hand back as Paulie gives your shoulder a squeeze. “You’ll be back with them soon.” Your eyes meet Paulie’s as he speaks, spotting the sadness in his eyes as he remembers one of many nights he woke up to your yearning. 

The scream ringing through the house jolts Paulie out of his slumber. He grumbles as he pulls pants on, heading over to your room to check on you. He opens the door to silently watch you frantically digging through the blankets, completely covered in sweat as you mumble Sanji’s name, asking where Snapster went. Paulie only watches for a few minutes before he comes to sit beside you on the bed, carefully taking the blankets out of your hands. He takes your wrists in his hands, making you look up to him. “Where is he?” Paulie’s heart aches as he works to calm you down. 

-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-

Sanji’s cornered. He’s got no where to run. The okamas are on all sides. Sanji tries to attack, kicking once. Kicking twice. By the third kick, he realizes he’s no longer on the ground. The fourth and fifth kicks get him higher up and he shouts, laughter erupting from his body. His first Sky Walk is rough, but he smiles as he looks down at the island. 

His body quickly starts plummeting to the ground as he thinks about how excited you would be to see this. His body is thrown through the trees, tears streaming down his face as sobs wreck through his body. He lands with a hard thud, not moving for a long time as he falls apart. 

-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-

Paulie helps you build a small boat, a piece of Water Seven to take with you, something to show all that you’ve learned, as you prepare to leave. One of his shipwrights in the company gets you an eternal pose set for Sabaody, sliding a map of Paradise into your hand with it. 

Iceberg swings by as you’re both working, laying down the blueprints for the Thousand Sunny on Paulie’s work table. “Franky had designed this ship ages before he built it. These might help you make something you can safely store on board.” 

Paulie looks over the blueprints, comparing them to the ones you and him made. You smile at Iceberg, thanking him as he heads back out. 

The three of you have one last meal together, breakfast this time, before they bid you a farewell. Hugging them both, you thank them more times than they believe necessary as you try not to cry. 

“I’ll never be able to repay you both for the home you’ve provided over the past two years. I owe you both my life.” You wave from your ship as you start to sail away. 

Paulie waves back with a much bigger smile than Iceberg as. “Tell Franky we wish him well!” 

Iceberg gives you a small salute as you swear you spot a little sadness in his eyes. He watches you and Paulie continue waving at each other until your little ship turns into a dot on the horizon.

-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-

A day later, Sanji sets sail from Momoiro Island, both excited and nervous to see you again. He’s about half a day behind you, unknowingly following you across the Grand Line on your way back home. He secures Snapster in his pocket for the journey, making sure the lobster’s head is peaking out and he can see the adventure, too. 

-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-

You arrive at Sabaody second, spotting Zoro napping on deck as you get your ship into the spot Paulie suggested. You decide to head out onto the archipelago, hopeful you can find other crewmates. 

Ending up walking through the amusement park, you’re shocked by the size of the crowd. One body slams into yours, then another. After the third body and a scream right in your ear, you’re on the ground. Reliving that night from two years ago. Knees slamming into the concrete. Hands on your ears. Head tucked as low as it will go. Tears start to stream down your face as you try to will yourself to be anywhere else. 

Sanji arrives on the Sunny and spots both a sleeping swordsman and your backpack, leaned against the door to below deck. He heads down, looking all over the ship for you before heading back up to deck. He glances at the crows nest before looking out to the island. 

He sighs, making his way back off the ship, wishing you could’ve been the first thing he saw upon returning. His bag is left on the ship, but Snapster is still secure in his pocket. 

He gets to the amusement park and spots you collapse on yourself. He’s running towards you. Only ten feet away. His movements speed up, not willing to let himself be too late again. He lands by your side, hands hovering above your shoulders like he’s trying to decide if it’s really you. 

You’re too absorbed in your panic to look up, or even notice, when Sanji lands beside you. 

His hands continue hovering. He tries whispering comforting words, not sure what to say to make it better. Too scared of making it worse to touch you. 

He lowers his hands and takes Snapster out of his pocket. He gently holds him under your head and waits. 

Your sobs start to slow, your breathing trying to level out before you whisper, confusion dripping off the word. “Snapster…?” Your arms slow come down as you take the lobster in one hand. 

As soon as you realize it’s real, your fear ridden eyes shoot up to meet Sanji’s worried ones. “Sanji…?” He slowly nods before your arms are quickly around his neck. Tears soaking his shirt as you cling to him. 

His arms come around your waist, pulling you in close as he tucks his head in your neck. His heart aches as he takes in your familiar scent, now coated in the added smell of a hard day’s work. “Hi, my love. I’m sorry I didn’t make it to you in time” 

“Hi, my handsome dork. You made it in time today.” 

You step back as Sanji helps you stand. His hands quickly move to your shoulders as yours grab his wrists. Snapster stays tucked between your hand and his wrist. Both of your eyes drop, scanning the changes the other has gone through over the past two years. 

“Sanji, did your legs somehow get stronger?” 

“My love, you look like you could bench mosshead.” You giggle as he pulls you into a tight hug. 

The next couple of hours are spent hanging off of each other, always having at least one hand on the other as you both shop for food for your crew. 

-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-

Sanji’s hand is in yours, fingers intertwined as you carry the food back to the ship. The bags are piled on the counter as you help him put everything away. He tells you about the horrors he experienced on Momoiro Island and the cool new tricks he’s dying to show you. 

You tell him you spent the past two years in Franky’s hometown, learning how to be a shipwright from the company he apprenticed at. You drag him away from the kitchen to show him the ship you and Paulie built. He admires it with care as you watch his face light up. You point out all the quirks, everything you added to make it your own. He fails to bite back a smile as he looks up to you. 

He wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in as you finish. His lips land on your temple as you admire your own creation. 

On your way back up to the galley, a new excitement fills your body. “I can’t wait to show Franky the ship.” Sanji drops his head onto yours, joy in his heart for the first time in years. 

Despite coming back to the galley to keep working, you both end up on the couch. Sanji’s on his back as you lay on top of him, running your fingers through his hair as you give him a lot of funny hairstyles. 

“I really missed you, Sanji.” His heart aches, tears starting to fall as you tell him how much you were aching to get him back. You wipe away his tears, gently cupping his cheeks as you pull him into a soft kiss. 

His eyes are still glistening as he leans his head back. One of his hands comes up to cup the side of your neck, the other landing on the small of your back. “I missed you so much, my love.” He tells you how badly he was aching, how much he hated the island and how much worse it was without you there. Your arms wrap around him as you lay your head on his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart as your own tears start to fall. 

He holds you close as you both drift off to sleep. 

-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-

You both know the second Luffy returns because he jumps right on top of you, pushing you deeper against Sanji’s body. Both now very awake, you turn to your captain as he asks for food. 

Sanji grumbles, heading over to make something easy as the crew gathers around the counter. Seeing that he’s making something simple, you move over and wrap your arms around him as your head rests on his back. His body relaxes as he continues cooking. You both smile listening to the stories your crewmates tell of their past two years. 

After a delicious simple lunch, the crew all exchanges hugs before parting ways to get the Sunny ready to sail. Sanji’s hand is in yours as you call out to Franky, not letting him leave the galley quite yet. “I have to show you something.” 

Confusion lines his features as he follows you down to the belly of the ship. His excitement grows as you tell him where you spent the past two years. “Both Iceberg and Paulie wanted me to say hi for them. They both miss you and are glad we’re doing well as a crew.” 

The tears that are lining the bottom of Franky’s eyes start to fall as he takes in the ship you and Paulie built. You proudly smile at Franky while Sanji wraps himself around you, resting his head on your shoulder. “This is super! The detail, it’s all so-” He cuts himself off as he moves closer, admiring the care you and Paulie put into the ship. “How did you match it to the Sunny so well?” 

“Iceberg still has your original blueprints. We worked with them to edit mine.” You laugh as Franky smiles. “Is this an okay spot for it to stay?” 

“Of course!” Franky’s smile grows as he reaches a fist up. You bump yours against his before he excitedly mentions wanting to work in the own workshop for a bit. 

“Have fun, Franky!” You smile at each other before Sanji unwraps himself, taking your hand again to lead you back to your cabin. 

As soon as you get into your room, Sanji turns to you. Before he can say or do anything, you judgingly look down at his outfit. “As much as I like you in a suit, you’re much more cuddly in comfier clothes.” You pout at him as you quickly change out of your travel clothes and into his comfiest clothes. Carefully taking Snapster out of his pocket, you step back so he can change. 

“You took the comfiest of the clothes, my love. What do you expect me to wear?” His sweet smile betrays the annoyance in his words. 

Humming in response, you climb into bed while watching him. “Where did we leave your green sweatshirt?” He thinks for a minute, watching you tuck Snapster into the corner of the bed, before opening your closet. “And put on comfy pants!” 

He peeks his head back out with an attempted glare towards you but your sweet smile brings out his own.  He quickly changes and climbs into bed next to you, tightly wrapping his arms around your waist. 

You carefully take his head in your hands, tipping it up so he’s facing you. “Hi, my handsome dork.” You press a gently kiss to his nose, sending a wave of red creeping up his neck. 

“Hi, my love.” He tries to bury his face into your chest but you bend down to press a kiss to his forehead before he can. His smiles grows and his eyes drift closed as you press another soft kiss to the side of his mouth. 

When you let your lips fully meet his, one of his hands moves up to the side of your neck. He softly kisses you back, smiling into the kiss as his heart swells. 

You both pull back with soft smiles on your lips and pure adoration in your eyes. “I love you.” He finally settles his face into your chest, nuzzling his body closer to yours. 

Tangling your legs with his, you press one last soft kiss to the top of his head. Your hold on him tightens as you start to drift to sleep. 

-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-

The crew’s only been on Fishman Island for a few hours. Havoc has already been wreaked. Chaos has already ensued. But there’s a smile on your face as Sanji pulls you along, needing you to urgently see something. 

He stops you close to a small pond. You lean into him, following the line of his arm as he points. His other arms wraps around your waist. Your smile grows as you watch the old lobster couple taking a stroll on the beach, holding claws.

Taglist: @elliescrolls

[thepensivekunoichi]

The Luckiest Man Alive

Pairing: Sanji x female!reader

Summary: Pretending to be engaged to Sanji was easy. Convincing yourself it meant nothing was harder.

Word count: about 6700

Contains: fake dating, fake engagement, fluff, PINING, awkward overdramatic romance, mild angst, reader being insecure about how flirty Sanji is.

Authors note: there will be a part two pretty soon, I'm almost done

“There is absolutely no downside to pretending we’re engaged, my sweet love,” Sanji said, eyes shining as he carefully draped his jacket over your shoulders, the fabric brushing teasingly against your bare skin.

“Yes, except for the part where people would think I was engaged to you,” you teased, though you couldn’t stop the faint warmth spreading across your cheeks.

This was going to be a very long mission.

You could have spent hours wondering how exactly you’d ended up in a situation where you were pretending to be madly in love with a cook who seemed born for the role, only to find yourself sharing a honeymoon suite with him for four days.

And yet, there you were, standing in the middle of an absurdly luxurious hotel room, surrounded by flowers, mirrors, silk sheets, and enough romantic decoration to make you wonder what terrible crime you’d committed to deserve such a fate.

Then again, the room itself wasn’t the problem.

The problem was the ecstatic cook currently wandering around it with hearts in his eyes, tossing rose petals into the air and admiring towel arrangements shaped like various adorable, mythical, and, in your opinion, deeply nauseating creatures.

It had all started innocently enough...

The crew had needed information from a wealthy broker attending an exclusive gathering on a secluded resort island. Rumor had it he was acting as the middleman in the private sale of the only known Eternal Pose leading to an otherwise unreachable island, and Robin wasn’t about to let a lead like that slip away.

They didn’t need to steal it. All they had to do was find out who currently possessed the Eternal Pose, where the exchange would take place, and how it would be transported once the deal was done.

The problem was that access to the event was restricted to married couples and engaged pairs.

Simple enough, right?

Except no one had actually known that tiny, insignificant little detail until Sanji and you were already standing at the reception desk.

Up until that moment, he had behaved exactly as he always did around you: hovering attentively nearby, opening doors, showering you with compliments.

Which was why it wasn’t particularly surprising when the woman behind the counter smiled warmly at the two of you while checking your reservation.

“I assume you’re engaged. Ah, young love! You’re practically glowing! Access to the event is restricted to married and engaged couples only.”

The words struck you like lightning from a clear sky, and heat rushed to your face.

Before you could untangle your tongue enough to respond, however, Sanji’s eyes lit up.

This is the greatest day of my life, he thought.

Not with the smile he wore when flirting or charming every beautiful woman who crossed his path.

No, this one was confident. Victorious.

Like a man accepting the highest honor at an award ceremony.

Yes, that’s me. Her fiancé. That’s right. Absolutely.

“Thank you from the bottom of my heart,” he said, taking your hand and pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “I’ve been looking forward to bringing my fiancée somewhere like this and showing the whole world just how lucky I am.”

You stared at him.

“I wouldn’t dream of denying my honeybun an experience like this.”

…Honeybun?

The receptionist practically melted.

“How adorable! Let me just check… Ah, yes. A couple like you deserves our finest honeymoon suite.”

She handed the keys to the blond cook.

“It’s ready. Gorgeous sea view, enormous jacuzzi, private pool, spa… and plenty of privacy,” she added with a knowing smile. “Enjoy yourselves, lovebirds!”

Sanji somehow managed to beam even brighter, puffing out his chest like an outrageously proud peacock.

“We certainly will! Isn’t that right, my dear Y/N-swan?”

If the ground had opened beneath your feet at that very moment and swallowed you whole, you would have accepted it as a divine deus ex machina.

Sadly, reality remained intact.

“You’re just precious! Look at her! A wedding right around the corner, and he still has that effect on her. She’s red as a poppy!”

One tiny lie, as your so-called fiancé would later put it, caused absolute chaos.

Congratulations began pouring in from every employee they encountered. Complimentary champagne appeared. Cakes. Reservations for couples’ activities. And, worst of all, the luxurious suite would belong to the two of you for four long, seemingly endless days.

“Refusing would have looked suspicious. Besides, I wouldn’t have passed up an opportunity like this if my life depended on it,” your insane fake future husband explained later.

Four days of sweet, sickening romance with Sanji.

The prospect would have been far easier to endure if he weren’t a natural-born expert at expressing affection and performing grand gestures.

Every touch, every door he held open, every chair he pulled out, every compliment he offered came naturally to the cook. He would have done those things regardless, though admittedly with far less frequency and considerably less intensity.

What was happening at the hotel was something else entirely.

Everything had been exaggerated tenfold.

His hand never seemed to leave the small of your back. He introduced you to everyone with a radiant smile. He devoted his undivided attention to you, never leaving you alone for long, remembering every detail of every conversation.

Worst of all, none of it felt forced.

For the blond gentleman, playing the role of the perfect fiancé seemed as effortless as breathing.

For you, meanwhile, it had taken only a single evening to bring you dangerously close to throwing yourself into the ocean and abandoning the mission altogether.

The hardest part was allowing yourself to play along.

To act equally smitten.

You had simply never been that kind of person, even when it was only pretend.

The embarrassment was bad enough.

Feeling painfully aware of your own stiffness and inability to relax somehow made it even worse.

The problem wasn’t Sanji.

Far from it.

For all that his affection was generously distributed among every woman he met, there was still something undeniably pleasant about being cared for. He treated every woman on the crew like something precious, and his kindness extended to others as well, even if he could be considerably rougher around the edges with them.

No, what unsettled you was precisely how universal that affection was.

Instead of bolstering your confidence, it had the opposite effect.

Everything felt unreal.

And on your worse days, almost mocking.

Because there was simply no way someone could genuinely say those sorts of things about you.

By the time you were finally escorted to your suite, your “fiancé,” whose arm had remained securely around your waist the entire walk, seized an unexpected opportunity.

The moment you caught your foot on the elevator threshold, he swept you effortlessly into his arms.

Instinctively, you threw your arms around his neck.

“I can still sweep you off your feet,” he said with a wink.

The hotel staff collectively dissolved into delighted squeals.

Then, lowering his voice slightly, he added:

“And every time you fall, I’ll be there to catch you.”

After he finally carried you over the threshold, murmuring, “A little rehearsal before the real thing, my love,” and the door clicked shut behind you, you immediately wriggled out of his arms.

Not without some difficulty.

The way he’d been holding you, firm and secure, had made it practically impossible to fall.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” you hissed, trying to calm the frantic beating of your heart.

Sanji ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the carefully arranged curls you held so dear in the process.

“We don’t have a choice, my love” he said. “It’s the only way. You heard her. They’re only letting couples in.”

Then he paused, a playful smile tugging at his lips as he looked at you with unmistakable fondness.

“And, truthfully, I’m honored that I get to call a creature as lovely as you my fiancée. Even if it’s only for a little while.”

Just when you’d thought you’d recovered, your cheeks burst into flames all over again.

“…I suppose you’re right. We only have three more days to survive,” you sighed.

The next unavoidable disaster came when you finally took a proper look around the room.

It wasn’t terrible.

Actually, it was beautiful.

Spacious, decorated in warm tones, with enormous windows and a terrace overlooking the sea.

As far as positives went, however, that was where the list ended.

Because the first thing anyone would notice was the petals.

They were everywhere.

On the enormous king-size bed positioned shamelessly in the center of the room. Across the floor. Scattered over the pillows. Even hanging from the chandelier and ceiling fans, so that petals drifted down around you like rain whenever the blades moved.

An massive heart made of red, pink, and magenta rose petals had been arranged atop the comforter.

And, as the final touch, two towels folded into swans sat at its center, their beaks touching to form yet another heart.

Beside them rested a bowl of strawberries and a card that read:

“For unforgettable moments together.”

“Of course.”

“What?” Sanji asked as he wheeled the last suitcase inside. “This is magnificent! A swan for my Y/N-swan!”

You merely blinked.

The sheer predictability of the Straw Hat cook left you momentarily speechless.

That only made his grin widen.

“Come on, admit it. We’ve seen worse rooms. They could’ve put us in that suite with the mirror on the ceiling.”

You quickly looked away.

“I wouldn’t mind admiring your beauty from every possible angle.”

His smile turned positively roguish.

“Sure you wouldn’t,” you snorted.

Something akin to sympathy flickered through his eyes, but before he could say anything, he walked over to the bed, scooped up a handful of petals, and tossed them into the air.

The delicate red and pink confetti scattered around him, floating down in slow motion like something straight out of a perfume commercial.

“Isn’t it wonderful, my love?”

“They plucked and butchered an entire family of perfectly innocent flowers just to create some tacky nonsense about an ‘intimate retreat for lovers.’ Somewhere, a rose bush is missing half its relatives. Every time someone says ‘romantic getaway,’ a cupid dies.”

You brushed an irritated swath of petals off the bed and accidentally knocked one of the swans crooked.

Sanji laughed.

“You have a vivid imagination.”

He lit a cigarette and glanced around the room.

“You can tell they put a lot of effort into this. That’s dedication. Don’t wreck it. The staff must’ve spent ages setting all this up.”

Kind. Thoughtful. Considerate.

Your chest tightened slightly at the realization.

Still, you replied, far more gently than you’d intended:

“Well, we have to sleep somewhere.”

The world seemed to stop.

Had he thrown another handful of petals at that exact moment, they probably would’ve frozen midair.

“Oh.”

“Oh.”

You would’ve expected Sanji to short-circuit on the spot.

To start hyperventilating. To spring a nosebleed from the mere implication of spending the night in close proximity to you.

Instead, he cleared his throat and gave a small bow.

“No need to worry, milady. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“What?”

“It’s really no trouble,” he said, smiling more sincerely this time. “You didn’t ask to end up in this situation.”

Why was he so damn nice?

“Like hell you’re sleeping on the floor.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m a pirate. I’ve slept in worse places. Besides, do you have any idea what it’s like sharing space with Luffy, Usopp, and Marimo? This is practically luxury.”

“So?” You rolled your eyes. “I’m a pirate too. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Absolutely not.”

The playful tone vanished immediately.

“I’ve slept in worse places,” you repeated, throwing his own words back at him. “And yes, I’m grateful that I share a room with Nami and Robin now. They’re fantastic roommates. But I had a life before that. It wasn’t exactly comfortable. Sleeping on the floor isn’t going to kill me.”

Sanji’s eyes filled with equal parts determination and compassion.

“The day I allow any woman, especially you, to be uncomfortable is the day I’m no longer among the living and whatever horrors lurk beneath the Grand Line finally drag me down.”

You stared.

Your breath caught.

Heat rushed into your cheeks so suddenly it almost hurt.

“The bed is more than big enough.”

“That’s not the point,” he began.

Then he stopped when he realized you were serious.

“You can’t possibly be as stubborn as I am.”

He laughed.

“If a lady such as yourself insists on inviting me into bed with her, who am I to deny her?”

You immediately smacked him with the spare towel swan.

“Stop.”

He looked at you softly.

Steadily.

And for just a moment, some of the awkwardness evaporated.

“We’ll share the bed,” you confirmed.

Sanji’s expression became suspiciously neutral.

The sort of neutrality people only managed when they were trying very, very hard not to react.

“You stay on your side.”

You pointed a warning finger at him.

“Of course, my dear.”

“And don’t try anything weird.”

“Naturally.”

“You’re agreeing awfully fast.”

“I’m being cooperative.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Me?” He smiled innocently. “Never.”

The lying blond.

It was eventually time to shower.

The hotel had thoughtfully provided enormous fluffy bathrobes which, to your horror and Sanji’s delight, were embroidered in gold thread.

One read:

Future Mrs. Forever

The other:

Future Mr. Forever

“I’m going first.”

“Of course, my dear.”

“…And don’t even think about coming in, peeking, or trying to join me,” you warned.

Sanji looked genuinely offended.

“I wasn’t planning to! …Do you really think that little of me?”

The wounded look in his eyes sent a familiar sinking feeling twisting through your stomach.

Guilt. Unfortunately.

“And what about that time you spied on Nami, Vivi, and me?” you reminded him, as you always did.

His head immediately lowered.

“I’ll be apologizing for that for the rest of my life.”

As if he wouldn’t do it again, the pervert.

“I promise I’ll behave. Take your time. It’ll give me a chance to unpack.”

His voice softened.

The door had barely clicked shut behind you when he let out a long breath.

Somehow, he was going to earn your forgiveness.

Somehow, he was going to make you understand who he really was.

Sanji would freely admit that, in the past, he’d occasionally behaved like an idiot.

Chasing after every beautiful woman he saw, bending over backward to make them happy, sometimes even humiliating himself in the process, if Zoro was to be believed.

But he’d always thought the way he treated you was obviously different.

Now, however, he could see the problem.

When a man required medical attention every time a woman smiled at him, suffered catastrophic nosebleeds whenever he caught sight of a particularly attractive figure, and practically launched into orbit after receiving a hug, it was understandable that you might question the sincerity of his feelings.

Maybe, over the next few days, he’d finally be able to show you.

He lit a cigarette and sank back onto the couch.

Then another.

No matter what happened, he promised himself one thing:

he wouldn’t let you regret agreeing to come with him.

Inside the bathroom, you discovered a walk-in shower with not one but two rainfall showerheads, a bathtub large enough to comfortably fit six people, rose petals scattered across its surface, candles arranged around the edges, and, to top it all off, a small plaque that read:

“Because every romantic journey deserves to begin with a shared bath.”

“Good Lord.”

A knock sounded from the other side of the door.

“Everything alright in there?”

“There are flowers. In. The bathtub.”

“…Seriously?” he laughed.

“It’s like you designed this place yourself.”

“You’re flattering me.”

When you emerged from the bathroom wrapped in the enormous bathrobe, your hair still damp and your face free of makeup, Sanji nearly forgot how to breathe.

A goddess of this sea, he thought.

Though, if he was being honest, the look leaned far more toward comfort than glamour.

For a moment, he simply stared.

Then he quickly gathered himself and looked away.

“The bathroom’s free.”

“Thanks.”

You headed for your suitcase to retrieve your nightgown and toiletries.

I’m doomed, echoed through Sanji’s mind.

He wasn’t entirely sure how he was supposed to maintain his composure for the rest of their stay at the resort.

By the time he emerged from the bathroom, dressed in a navy silk pajama set and drying his hair with a towel, you were already tucked into bed on the left side, flipping through one of the resort brochures.

He greeted you and sat down on the edge of the mattress.

“What are you reading?”

You glanced up.

“I’m studying this absurdly elaborate brochure and wondering where we might find actual information about the Log Pose.”

He leaned closer to look over your shoulder.

The warmth of his body and the brush of his breath against your neck sent a shiver down your spine.

You were beautiful, his mind screamed.

The sight of you in your nightgown. Your lovely hair. The shadow your lashes cast across your cheeks. The scent of shampoo, lotion, perfume, and all the little things that made you unmistakably you.

It would’ve brought kings to their knees.

Never mind an ordinary mortal like the Straw Hat cook.

Sanji physically forced himself to pull back.

“Sorry.”

Instead, he picked up another brochure from the bedside table.

Glancing through it, he found no useful information whatsoever.

The pages were packed with advertisements for couples’ massages, sunset cruises, private dinners beneath the stars, and enough heart-shaped decorations to make his eyes hurt.

“‘Renew your vows beneath our Moonlight Pavilion,’” he read aloud. “…They’re really committed to the theme.”

You snorted.

“I’ve learned more about their honeymoon packages than our actual mission.”

He hummed and closed the brochure.

“They wouldn’t advertise something like this openly.”

“No, but they still have to organize it somehow.” Resting your chin on your hand, you thought aloud. “People don’t just arrive on an island carrying priceless navigation equipment. Someone checks them in. Someone handles their luggage. Someone prepares their rooms.”

Something shifted in Sanji’s expression.

“…The staff.”

You nodded.

A slow grin spread across his face.

“I can work with that, my dear.”

“You can?”

“I’m a chef.” He shrugged as though the answer were obvious. “Professional kitchens love talking to other chefs. Give me an hour near theirs and somebody will complain about deliveries, difficult guests, or whoever ordered dinner at three in the morning.”

“You make espionage sound suspiciously easy.”

“It usually starts with food.”

You couldn’t help laughing.

“Then I’ll handle the guests.”

“The guests?”

“They’re wealthy.” You gestured vaguely with the brochure. “Wealthy people gossip. Especially when they think they’re talking to another harmless tourist.”

“So…” Sanji summarized, counting on his fingers. “I befriend the staff. You mingle with the guests.”

“And every evening we compare notes.”

He nodded.

“Sounds like a plan.”

Your gaze wandered around the outrageously romantic room once more before you sighed.

“…I just didn’t think reconnaissance would involve matching bathrobes.”

Sanji followed your eyes toward the embroidered robes hanging beside the wardrobe.

“…Or complimentary couple’s slippers.”

That night, the two of you lay on opposite ends of the enormous bed, so far apart that Zoro and Luffy could’ve comfortably fit between you.

Possibly Chopper too.

“…Are you planning to fall off?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re literally hanging between silk sheets and the abyss.”

“It’s fine.”

“Gravity is eventually going to win. I hope you know that.”

“I’m respecting your personal space,” he continued solemnly.

A smile tugged at your lips despite yourself.

You rolled your eyes.

“Look how much room we have.”

“I’m aware.”

An idea suddenly struck you.

Grinning, you began arranging the decorative satin pillows between the two of you.

“There.”

“A barrier?” he asked, tilting his head dramatically.

“A border.”

He looked at you warmly.

“A neutral zone?”

“Exactly. If neither side violates the established boundaries, there will be no unfortunate consequences.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” he said for what felt like the hundredth time.

“And as a firm guarantee of our neutrality and peaceful diplomatic relations…”

You grabbed a handful of leftover rose petals and scattered them across the pillow border.

“…our brave soldiers of the Red and Pink Rose Army.”

Sanji laughed and immediately joined in.

“I’ll be the reds!”

One of your movements accidentally brushed against something hidden near the headboard.

Suddenly, music filled the room.

“Love is in the air…”

Both of you jolted upright.

“What did you do?!”

“How should I know?!”

“Where do you turn this thing off?!”

After several frantic attempts, and after cycling through an alarming variety of songs ranging from cheerful pop music to heartbreaking ballads about eternal love conquering all earthly obstacles, soulmates separated by fate, and passions that transcended every boundary imaginable, you finally managed to silence it.

Then promptly collapsed into helpless laughter.

At last, you settled into bed properly.

No limbs dangling over the edge.

No imaginary cupids soaring triumphantly overhead.

Just silence.

Neither of you seemed capable of falling asleep.

The rhythmic chirping of insects drifted through the open window alongside the distant sound of waves.

And breathing.

“…Sanji?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“…Thank you.”

“For what?”

He turned toward you in the darkness.

“For offering to sleep on the floor.”

A pause.

“…There really wasn’t another option.”

You rolled onto your side and stared at him incredulously.

For a man who spent most of his life behaving exactly like Sanji, he certainly had nerve pretending otherwise.

“For you?” you said. “The same man whose thoughts managed to shock Viola, and that woman survived Doflamingo?”

Even in the darkness, you could practically feel him turning red.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“…I don’t want you to think that way about me,” he muttered.

His voice was quieter now.

“You’ll see. I’m not quite as hopeless or reckless as I probably seem at first.”

A smile spread across your face in the darkness.

Not that he could see it.

When you stirred awake at dawn to the sound of waves rolling against the shore, the pillow barricade had long since fallen victim to the countless movements of the night.

And yet, both of you had remained firmly on your respective sides of the bed, never brushing against one another even once.

Somehow, Sanji appeared to have spent the entire night hanging off the very edge of the mattress. One arm dangled toward the floor, one knee bent precariously over the side, and the blanket the two of you had shared, despite stretching over the ruined wall of pillows, offered him no warmth whatsoever in the coolness of the night and early morning. Nearly all of it had migrated to your side.

Frankly, he looked as though he would have slept more comfortably on the floor, as he’d originally suggested, and the faint shadows beginning to form beneath his eyes seemed to agree.

Propping yourself up on one elbow, you took a moment to study him.

His soft blond hair had transformed into a proper crow’s nest, no pun intended. It was so thoroughly disheveled that both spiral eyebrows were fully visible. Raising your hand, you traced the familiar shape of them in the air above his forehead without actually touching him.

You quickly withdrew your hand when his mouth fell open a little further and a faint snore drifted through the room.

A quiet fondness bloomed beneath your ribs and softened your expression.

He’s so handsome when he’s asleep, you thought.

Without the burden of constantly proving himself.

Without the sweetened compliments, poetic declarations, and endless displays of admiration he seemed to consider necessary whenever a woman crossed his path.

Once more, your gaze wandered across his peaceful sleeping features before you carefully pulled the blanket over him.

A tiny gesture.

One that reflected only a fraction of the countless unconscious acts of kindness and consideration he showered you with every day.

If only he could truly love me too, you thought.

Then you settled back onto your pillow, hoping to steal another hour of sleep.

Sunlight spilled into the enormous honeymoon suite where, side by side, lay two members of the Straw Hat crew, each entirely unaware of the effect they had on the other.

The cook was the first to awaken.

His eyelashes fluttered as he fought off the last traces of sleep, and almost immediately he noticed the warmth wrapped around his torso.

He was covered.

How could I allow such a thing to happen?

The thought struck him with immediate horror.

Despite all his efforts, despite spending most of the night stubbornly refusing to relax, he had apparently surrendered to unconsciousness and allowed dear Y/N to freeze while he selfishly stole the blanket for himself.

How would he ever recover from such disgrace?

Could such shame be washed away?

Had he truly committed such a crime even in his sleep?

Had he dared expose a delicate flower to the cold simply so his own selfish person could enjoy a little comfort?

Unforgivable.

Then he paused.

The blanket didn’t look as though it had been carelessly yanked away from a lady at all.

Quite the opposite.

It had been arranged with remarkable care, positioned almost geometrically around the places most vulnerable to the morning chill.

His eyes widened.

Could it be…?

Y/N-chan…

Brightest creature to ever set foot upon the Grand Line…

Thoughtful, caring, wonderful angel…

Goddess of my All Blue…

Stars practically exploded behind his eyes.

What had he done to deserve such kindness?

His gaze drifted toward your sleeping form.

You looked peaceful.

Content.

The soft rhythm of your breathing filled the quiet room.

Slowly, sunlight began creeping across your face.

When it finally reached your right eyelid, you stirred.

Sanji was already blushing by the time your eyes opened.

“’Morning,” you mumbled.

“Good morning, angel.”

You pushed yourself upright and rubbed the sleep from your eyes.

A small part of you felt self-conscious under the intensity of his attention. Who knew what you looked like first thing in the morning?

“By the way,” you said, squinting at him, “it’s kind of creepy to stare at people while they’re sleeping.”

Sanji blinked in astonishment.

A remarkable statement coming from a woman who had, only a few hours earlier, been tracing the shape of his eyebrows in the air above his face.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Not even the greatest effort imaginable could keep me from looking when such beauty is right in front of me.”

Whether it was the sunlight, lingering sleepiness, the way he was looking at you, or his words themselves, you couldn’t say.

All you knew was that the blush spreading across your cheeks deepened considerably.

After a surprisingly peaceful breakfast, if one ignored the heart-shaped pancakes, the complimentary “Lovers’ Blend” coffee, and the waiter who insisted on taking a commemorative photograph, you finally had a chance to focus on the reason you were there.

Sanji, for his part, had been absolutely delighted by the photo. At one point, he’d proudly drawn you against his chest and looked at you with such ridiculous tenderness that you’d actually laughed at the absurdity of the situation.

“It would be a crime not to take a picture of such a lovely couple! Especially when you’re wearing that beautiful dress. I refuse to let an opportunity like this go to waste.”

The photograph had been taken.

Unfortunately.

Sanji unfolded the resort map between the two of you.

“So,” he said, tapping the paper. “Where do we start?”

Resting your chin on your hand, you studied the various amenities listed across the island.

“I’ll start with the kitchens,” he declared.

Leaning over your shoulder, he allowed his lips to brush your bare shoulder in passing for the benefit of a pair of employees walking nearby.

You felt a shiver race down your spine at the subtlety of it.

“You don’t even work here.”

“I don’t have to.”

His grin widened, visibly charmed by your flustered reaction.

“A chef recognizes another chef. Give me twenty minutes.”

“And if they throw you out?”

“They won’t.”

“…You’re awfully confident.”

“They’ll feed me first.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“Alright, Mr. Master Chef.”

“And what about you?”

“I’ll mingle.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

He lit a cigarette.

“Perhaps it would be safer if you enjoyed the spa, got a massage or two, and waited until I’ve figured out what we’re dealing with.”

You cut him off immediately.

“I’m perfectly capable of surviving crowds far more troublesome than this, and you know it. The only real danger is that I’ll lose my mind listening to conversations about imported wine and scented bath salts.”

Sanji nodded.

Apparently deciding it would be wise to hold his tongue in the future.

“I’ll pray for your survival.”

“Please do.”

He stood, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his shirt.

Two can play this game, you thought.

Rising to your feet, you reached up to straighten his collar yourself, stepping closer and lowering your voice near his ear.

“We’re meeting back here for dinner, darling?”

Sanji froze.

Then unfroze.

Then seemingly forgot how to breathe.

Then remembered and started breathing far too hard.

His heart hammered against his ribs like an overenthusiastic woodpecker.

“Y-Y/N-swan!”

He practically melted.

Then hastily pulled himself together and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I’ll come find you sooner than that,” he promised softly. “The moment I’m finished.”

The kitchens turned out to be exactly as Sanji had predicted.

Organized chaos.

Steam curled from simmering pots. Knives struck cutting boards in rapid rhythm. Orders flew across the room louder than cannon fire.

Sanji lingered outside the entrance for all of thirty seconds before spotting one of the sous-chefs struggling with a crate of vegetables.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward.

“Need a hand?”

The older man blinked.

Then let out a grateful sigh.

“Wouldn’t say no, young man.”

One crate became two.

Two became helping unload supplies.

Which somehow transformed into correcting the seasoning in a seafood chowder.

The head chef took one bite.

“…Who made this?”

Standing nearby, Sanji shrugged with practiced nonchalance.

“I only added a little thyme.”

By lunchtime, nobody questioned why he was there.

Stories, recipes, culinary disasters, and tales of memorable guests flowed as freely as the food. They exchanged anecdotes about everyone from high-ranking Marines to infamous pirates, a subject on which Sanji, naturally, had plenty to contribute.

He blended into the crowd so effortlessly it was as if he’d worked there for years.

At one point, a waiter grumbled that Villa Twelve had once again requested dinner for two to be delivered precisely at nine o’clock.

“The strange part,” another waiter added, “is that only one guest is registered there.”

“Maybe they’re lonely,” Sanji suggested casually while chopping herbs.

The waiter snorted.

“Not lonely enough to eat two full-course meals every night.”

Another cook joined the conversation.

“And they’re ridiculously secretive. Management personally delivers the second place setting.”

Interesting.

Sanji continued sautéing vegetables and preparing meats while quietly absorbing every piece of kitchen gossip that might lead them toward the information they needed.

Meanwhile, your own investigation proved exhausting in a completely different way.

The resort had thoughtfully organized what they called A Morning of Shared Serenity.

In practice, this consisted of wealthy couples drinking tea while discussing each other’s lives with astonishing enthusiasm.

You smiled.

Nodded.

Spoke fondly of your wonderful fiancé, who unfortunately wasn’t present at the moment, while mentally noting that if you ever had to attend one of these events again, Sanji would absolutely be coming with you.

Every pretentious comment was met with polite interest.

Every boast was encouraged.

Every complaint was carefully entertained.

Somewhere between the second and third discussion about luxury yachts, an older woman leaned toward her companion.

“The Beaumonts reserved the Moonlight Pavilion again.”

“They always do.”

Your ears immediately perked up.

“Tomorrow evening, wasn’t it?”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Apparently they’re finally meeting that business associate they’ve been waiting for.”

You stirred your tea and kept your expression pleasantly neutral.

Now that’s something.

Another guest sighed dramatically.

“I do hope they aren’t discussing business all night. It ruins the atmosphere.”

“They rented the entire pavilion.”

“Again?”

“Mhm. Complete privacy.”

You took another sip of tea to hide the smile threatening to appear.

People with entirely too much money truly couldn’t resist gossiping.

By the time dinner finally arrived, you felt as though your social battery had been completely drained and was in desperate need of emergency intervention.

You’d stopped by your room beforehand to freshen up and change clothes, reviving yourself with several chocolates from the complimentary gift basket. Sugar had always possessed the miraculous ability to raise you from the dead.

When you entered the dining hall, however, there was no sign of your “future husband”.

Just as you approached the table, a familiar voice called out:

“My beloved.”

You turned.

The blond man with spiral brows stepped toward you and gently pressed a kiss to your hand.

“My eyes are blessed to see you. You look beautiful, as always.”

For a moment, the two of you simply looked at one another.

Then he pulled out your chair.

All around you, elderly couples decorated in varying degrees of extravagance watched the exchange and sighed dreamily.

As you sat down and he carefully moved your chair closer to the table, Sanji leaned near your ear.

“Tonight, I’ll have the honor of feeding you myself. I helped prepare dinner with the chefs.”

You laughed and glanced at him.

“You always feed me.”

Then, more quietly:

“You’re the cook of our crew.”

“And it’s always an honor, Y/N-swan.”

His gaze settled on yours.

Deep and attentive.

As it always did, it immediately found what it was looking for.

“Long day?”

“I know entirely too much about honeymoon cruises,” you muttered.

He laughed softly.

Once you had both been served, with several enthusiastic recommendations from your personal chef, the conversation turned more serious.

“I’ve got something.”

Sanji smiled over the rim of his wine glass.

“So do I.”

“You first.”

He shook his head.

“Ladies first.”

You sighed dramatically.

“I think someone important arrives tomorrow.”

“They’re already here.”

Your eyes widened.

“…What?”

“The kitchen has been preparing dinner for two in Villa Twelve since yesterday evening.”

You frowned.

“But only one guest checked in.”

“Officially.”

The single word was enough.

Your thoughts immediately arrived at the same conclusion.

“The business associate.”

Sanji inclined his head.

“I’d wager they’ve been on the island for at least a day. Whoever arranged this meeting has gone to considerable lengths to keep their arrival off the books, but kitchens notice the sort of details people assume they’ll overlook.”

Despite yourself, you leaned forward.

“What exactly did you hear?”

“One waiter complained about delivering two full-course dinners every evening to a villa occupied by a single registered guest. Another mentioned that management personally handles the second place setting and that nobody is allowed to ask questions.”

A thoughtful silence settled between you.

Your fingers traced absent circles around the stem of your wine glass.

“That explains something.”

His attention sharpened immediately.

“The Beaumonts?”

You nodded.

“I spent the morning surrounded by people who gossip the way sailors drink, and somewhere between discussions about yachts and charity galas, two women mentioned that the Beaumonts had reserved the entire Moonlight Pavilion tomorrow evening. Apparently they’re finally meeting the business associate they’ve been waiting for.”

The corner of Sanji’s mouth lifted.

“So your gossip confirms mine.”

Leaning back in your chair, you watched the scattered pieces suddenly arrange themselves into a coherent picture.

“The associate arrived quietly and has been hidden in Villa Twelve. Tomorrow night’s reservation isn’t just dinner.”

Your eyes met across the table.

“It’s the meeting we’ve been looking for.”

Sanji nodded slowly.

“Exactly.”

For a brief moment, neither of you touched your food.

The sounds of cutlery, conversation, and soft music faded into the background as you considered what this meant.

Then, almost absentmindedly, you smiled.

“I have to admit, I thought spending the afternoon listening to wealthy socialites complain about one another would be the least useful assignment.”

“And I thought I was simply making soup.”

A laugh escaped you.

At that exact moment, the music changed.

Violins.

Cellos.

Double basses.

A graceful symphony swept through the dining hall.

Several couples were already dancing together, moving across the floor in perfect harmony.

Sanji’s eyes immediately lit up.

“Milady,” he said, taking your hand and pressing a gentle kiss to your skin, “may I have this dance?”

You rose almost automatically, carried along by the moment, and your feet felt strangely light as he drew you closer.

“But Sanji,” you whispered through gritted teeth, thoroughly embarrassed, “I don’t know how to dance.”

A fond smile touched his lips.

He looked genuinely charmed by your expression.

“Don’t worry, my dear.”

His voice softened.

“Just follow me.”

As the distance between you disappeared, Sanji placed his right hand lightly against your shoulder blade, his arm forming a strong, protective frame. He guided your left hand to his shoulder, and your fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket.

Then he offered you a reassuring smile.

It’s alright.

You’ll be fine.

Slowly, the two of you began to sway together.

The steady rise and fall of his breathing seemed to provide a rhythm all its own.

Or at least it probably should have.

You had only the vaguest idea what you were doing.

Feeling the subtle shift of his weight onto his right foot, he guided you to mirror him. You softened your knees and stepped back.

For several glorious seconds, everything went perfectly.

Then you stepped directly on his foot.

Mortified, you immediately began apologizing.

Sanji behaved as though nothing had happened.

He stopped you by lifting your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm.

“Relax, my dear. You’re doing wonderfully.”

A blatant lie.

“I didn’t even feel it.”

Another one.

Noticing your discomfort beneath the curious eyes of the surrounding guests, he gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face and leaned close enough for only you to hear.

“Don’t pay attention to anyone else.”

His voice was warm.

“They aren’t important.”

And somehow, after that, they really weren’t.

The music continued.

You found the rhythm again.

And gradually, you had to admit that you were enjoying yourself.

The closeness. The undivided attention. The feeling that, for a little while, the rest of the world had simply ceased to exist.

As though the two of you were the only people that mattered.

As though you were infinitely precious to one another.

That night, after returning to the suite and preparing for bed, both of you were exhausted.

Somehow, even more exhausted than after many of the adventures that had involved actual fighting.

And yet there was a strange lightness to it as well.

Perhaps because you had genuinely enjoyed spending the day together.

Lying beneath the covers, it all felt surprisingly natural.

Probably because we’ve lived together on the ship for so long, you told yourself, attempting to rationalize it.

After only two days of pretending, the routine no longer felt particularly forced.

There was something deeply comforting about his presence.

The effortless courtesy.

The chairs he pulled out for you.

The jackets draped over your shoulders whenever it grew cold.

The way he always insisted you shower first.

The privacy he gave you without ever being asked.

Even sharing a bed.

If it had been anyone else, you weren’t sure you would’ve managed to close your eyes at all.

Yet lying here beside him, with his sleeping hand unconsciously holding yours against his chest, over his heart, it felt as though you’d been doing this your entire life.

Existing in one another’s immediate orbit.

Close. Vulnerable. Safe.

And that frightened you a little.

Because alongside that comfort came hope.

A painful, stubborn hope.

That perhaps, despite everything, there was still a chance he truly thought you were worth loving.

That he genuinely found you beautiful.

Dear to him.

Special.

And that, more than anything else…

he might actually love you.

[s3rein-fic]

——————————————

This is a y/n x Uzui Tengen NSFW oneshot.

Since it is a oneshot it will not be continued.

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It was a regular day at your job. You worked at a market and not many people came to your side since your area was mostly for the weapons. The shop you were working at was family owned, specialized in mostly taking care of swords including; cleaning, sharpening, polishing, and even putting on a new handle no matter what type of sword.

Today you sat back and listened to the birds. No one else was around not even your brother, the only other coworker. He said he'd be back in 30 minutes but it's been a good hour since him and his friend left. He obviously bailed on you.

The customers consisted of mostly elderly men coming to get their swords sharpened or refurbished for their son or grandson as a gift. Knowing this, your brother probably thought you'd have no problem with him leaving early. You sighed and relaxed knowing there was a good chance no one would be over today anyway.

But just as you thought that, you heard a pair of footsteps walk to your booth and stop just short of it.

"Excuse me. Are you open?"

When it accrued to you that someone was there waiting and speaking to you , you opened your eyes and stood up out of your seat.

"Yes sir we are. How may I help you." When you made eye contact with the man, you had to keep yourself from staring. He was much larger and taller than you in practically every way making it feel like you were a house cat standing in front of a lion if that made any sense. The man had white hair and maroon eyes. A total dreamboat to anyone.

"I need my swords and chain cleaned and sharpened if possible. Along with my handle. The grip is getting a little weak.

"I-uh yes we can do that. What type of swords are they."

"Great.... how long would the wait be." He ignored the question and watched you pull out a book and look at a couple of things.

"I would have to gather the materials to fix the handle part you're talking about...depending on what is wrong with it. If you bring in later today, whenever is convenient for you I'll have them complete and ready for you tomorrow."

"That sounds wonderful. I will pick them up tomorrow evening then. After our date in the morning." He lifted a big bag up from his side and placed it on the table with a smirk on his face.

You paused once you heard this thinking you must have thought of something else and it crossed over his words.

"I-.... Excuse me?" He didn't say anything and just smiled.

"Well if you don't want to that's fine too."

"No no it just caught me off guard is all....sure."

"Great. Then it's a date."

He smirked at you and then unzipped the bag.

"May I?" You looked at the bag then at him as he nodded and gestured for you to continue. You moved the bag open seeing the two huge weapons, they were pretty beat up but you could still tell how strong and powerful the weapons were. "Wow....How'd you manage to damage these huge things." You reached in and grabbed one by the handle not expecting it to be as heavy as it was.

"Nothing much. Just messing aroun- careful." He took the handle from your grip and took the one sword out of the bag for you. It was freshly washed as if something had been on it before he brought them in but you didn't say anything since it's none of your business.

"Thank you." You were pretty impressed how he was able to pick it up so easily and held your smile as you got a good look at it.

When you looked at it closely, you were taken back a bit noticing the work done on the sword. But then realized what it was made out of.

"Wait. These swords..."

"Pretty impressive work. That's why I can't take them to the one who forged them. He'd have my head if he saw them like this. What, do you recognize the work?"

"Well no but my father told me stories about these type of swords. The material used to build them usually is only used by a demon slayer. I thought it was just some old stories. But....how could you get a hold of something so close to the description."

"Another thing I'd like to keep that to myself."

"....hmm...okay... well... I'll get started right away. You can come inside if you'd like." You looked at the swords one more time then started to pick up the bag. Since it was too heavy for you, he picked them up for you.

On the way inside the shop past a few things including doors and materials put to the side for other customers, you asked him a few questions.

"So. Does my secretive client have a name?"

"Well since you asked...Uzui Tengen." He followed not far behind you.

"A strong name for a strong man. Perfect for a Hashira."

"I never said that's who I was."

"That's fine. You can continue to say those things but it's obvious. Why else would you be carrying around a Hashira's weapon." Uzui didn't say anything and just chuckled to himself fascinated with the way you walked, talked, and looked in-front of him. Wearing a kimono was a regular thing for you and in all honesty it was comfortable.

When you got to the spot where you would begin to wash his swords you prepared him some tea and a place to sit and wait.

His eyes were glued on your arms and chest as you tightened your bow on your kimono and took the swords out of the bag carefully.

With it being so tight up and around your arms it was also across and down your back really showing off your curves. Which Uzui especially liked about it. And now with the sleeves pulled back. He could see the outlines of your entire body.

"Say.... what is it that you use to clean swords with. I hear this shop is the best when it comes to cleaning and fixing the grip of any sword."

"That is a family secret. Can't tell you that."

"Well what about the technique with the handles. All of the swordsman that come here never have to get a replacement handle after yours."

"Can't say. Once again it's a family secret."

"Hmm. You really are full of secrets aren't you."

"I could say the same for you." You peeked over your shoulder catching his eyes looking at your ass while you worked on the chain connecting the two swords. It was pretty beat up but nothing you couldn't fix.

"What. You like what you see?" Your words didn't distract Tengen one bit. In fact it only made him smile and stare even more.

His actions made you smile and shake your head looking back at the swords to focus on the task you started.

After finishing the washing part, it was time to sharpen it, but before you did that you went and finished making Uzui his cup of tea.

"Thank you."

"It's no problem" you looked at him and smiled making eye contact just before you took the tea pot and put it back where it was supposed to go.

After 30 minutes of talking to one another while you did what you could with your materials and Uzui walked around and helped where he could, he looked at the time and had to leave you to the rest of your work.

"I'll let you get top your work."

"What? You're leaving?" You were a little surprised, not wanting him to go so soon.

"Unfortunately. But don't worry. I'll be here for our date tomorrow." He winked at you and walked out the shop as you followed.

He smirked lightly while saying good bye to you and walked away from the booth. You scanned the way he wore his traditional kimono as he walked away. Exhaling, you checked him out just before shaking your head and snapping out of it.

—

The next day, you found yourself a little overly excited as you got yourself ready for the little date you two had planed. Once he arrived at the shop to pick you up, you were ready as ever. He greeted you with a warm smile and complements left and right as he watched you walk out.

He made you feel like the center of attention. His personality was so flashy that he didn't feel shy or nervous to say or do anything.

The two of you went around town and ate lunch together for a few hours while you both started to get to know each other a bit more than before hitting it off while even visiting some festivals before heading back.

By the time you got back to the market, the two of you couldn't hold your smiles and laughs.

"let me go and get changed. I have to wax and rinse your swords before you go." He nodded and waited patiently as you left to change into your easier to work in kimono. Once you came back, you tied back your sleeves and prepared some tea for Uzui to drink as you worked.

As the water boiled, you got to work and finished polishing his swords. As you were finishing up, you paused and cleaned off your hands to pour him a cup of tea.

"thank you y/n " He smiled and watched as you poured his drink.

"It's my pleasure, you don't have to thank me." You slowly poured the tea into the cup after adding the scoops of tea leaves to the mix. But as you poured the tea you ended up leaning over just enough showing your breast by accident.

Though you weren’t aware of it, this caught Uzui's eyes instantly.

When you finished pouring the tea, you put the pot down and stood up. But, before you could get to your feet, Uzui pulled you down to sit in his lap.

When you noticed what happened you started to apologize thinking that maybe you had fallen but it was the opposite.

"You planned this? Or maybe it was an accident… Either way. I'm a pretty sturdy and flashy man when it comes to seeing something I like that you have in front of me."

"Wha-....what's that supposed to mean." You knew what he meant but you couldn't be sure what he may be thinking.

"To put it short. Once someone starts something..." he leaned in close to you and spoke quietly. "I make sure to get it done. And in a quick and flashy way if need be." After just a second he moved the both of you over so your back was on the floor and he was over your body.

Your heart began to race realizing all this was actually happening.

"If this bothers you in any way you can say it."

He paused giving you time to speak but instead of saying something you thought about it and took advantage of the situation because why not. You grabbed onto the back of his neck pulling yourself up to his lips kissing him.

By the timing, Uzui was slightly caught off guard but joined into the kiss not long later. It was just over a minute when the kiss turned more intimate.

Your hands were all over each other. Both of your breathing grew heavier every second as you both grew curious, wanting a little more than just each other's touch and you didn't care about how he just showed up at your shop. It didn't bother you one bit that this man was between your legs with the slightest movements gently turning into grinds each second.

It wasn't clear till now just how large Uzui was compared to you. He had his arms wrapped around you perfectly as your legs around his hips just enough for your ankles to attach comfortably.

Beginning to grow a bit impatient, you reached down and grabbed a hold of his kimono. He didn't stop you so you undid it and slowly started to push it off his shoulders. Uzui helped you with that along with your kimono, pushing down your sleeves.

You were both ready for each other and when he eventually was lined up, he gave you a look double checking if this was okay. Watching him pause, you nodded as he pushed in deep, already stretching you out slowly as he wanted.

He was huge. But even with this being your first, after the pain, you loved every second with Uzui.

His hands held onto your ass and waist as he placed his forehead against yours. Your moans filled the room quickly as his tempo began to speed up.

Your toes curled and your nails dug into his remaining clothing. When you did, he took it off, tossing it so he could feel your scratching. Uzui kept his eyes on your chest and body most of the time, making eye contact with you from time to time when you had them open.

Slowly you lowered your hand and opened your kimono a bit more so he could see as much as he wanted. He loved this, making his thrusts rougher without him even noticing.

Your hand shot back up and held on tight, scratching down his back multiple times only adding to his pleasure.

Uzui sat up more and stared down at your eyes watching as they rolled back in pleasure.

He smirked and began to ram into you. His eyes wandered and scanned every square inch of your body and stopped on your chest watching as your breast moved with each thrust he put on you.

The both of you were loud. Being at it for so long, his rough manner turned into bliss. But as you began to reach your climax and tried telling Uzui you heard someone open the door to the shop.

"Y/n?! Sorry we're late getting back we...uh... Just needed to stop by a place on the way back."

Hearing the voices made both you and Uzui pause out of shock but he found a quick solution. Though it probably wasn’t the best plan.

He picked you up along with his kimono and carried you to the closest closet. When you both got inside it was only a split second till someone walked in the room.

"Y/n?...."

"Is she in there?"

"No. But it looks like she started for a client though so she can't be too far."

You held your hand over Uzui’s mouth as you both listened out for the people just outside the door. He saw the opportunity and took it by moving your hips in his hand, just enough to get your attention. During this whole time he didn’t pull out all the way.

When the both of you locked eyes you did it this time but only to have Uzui stop you mid way with his hand.

"Eh. Whatever. Lets go get some Ramen maybe. And then she'll have a reason to not be mad at me for bringing you back so late."

Being so impatient with the situation, he kissed you and put your arms around his neck.

Getting distracted, you kissed him back. So you moved your hips again moving him back a little against the closet wall. It was a tight space but he was able to slide down enough to get a better angle.

"Yeah alright." The two people walked out the room and out the shop to head out to get food.

Uzui bit his lip and held you still.

"How are you gonna do me like that, come on." He then moved the both of you, pushing you to the wall and pining your hands to the wall holding them above your head continuing to thrust.

Once again, the room filled with your shared noises.

You moaned and whined telling him how close you were but he didn't listen and let you cum. When you did, he bit his lip mumbling sweet nothings before fucking you through your orgasim.

He made you a mess under him. Your legs were weak and loose around his hips as your hands gripped his arms leaving nail marks all over.

It wasn't long until he found your g spot, making sure you came again just before him.

Compared to yours, his breath was only a little heavy. It didn’t take long before his breathing calmed.

He kissed your cheek down to your neck before pulling out and opening the door. Carrying you, Uzui got blankets from the closet and laid you down carefully with your head on his lap while he put his kimono back on.

"I knew it"

"Hmm?... knew what."

"You're breathing. So controlled. You really are a Hashira... And you could probably go for hours Huh."

Tengen chuckled to himself and moved your hair out your face. "Only if you would be down for that."

“Would you?”

3000 words

Posted on Wattpad: 11/23/24

[haziieeee]

Water Hashira's Favorite?!

Pairings: Tomioka Giyuu x Tsuguko(f)!reader

giyuu having reader as his tsuguko even though he promised to himself he'd never take one. -anon.

Wc: 19k

Warnings: Jealous giyuu, nipple sucking (he loves it), getting caught (almost), making out, kissing, possesive giyuu, oral (f and m), fingering, p in v, loss of virginity, morning sex

The scent of iron and charred wood hung heavy in the midnight air. Rain descended in thin, freezing needles that blurred the edges of the burning village. You gripped the hilt of your Nichirin sword, your knuckles white, your palms slick with a mixture of sweat and blood. Your chest heaved, each breath a ragged scrape against your lungs.

The demon stood ten paces away. It was a spindly thing, its skin the color of a drowned corpse, with elongated fingers that ended in jagged, obsidian claws. Three eyes, mismatched and pulsing with a sickly yellow light, tracked your every tremor. It let out a wet, clicking sound, a mockery of laughter that vibrated in the humid air.

Behind you, a small child huddled in the dirt, sobbing into a tattered kimono. The boy's eyes were wide, reflecting the orange glow of the encroaching fire. You stepped back, your boots sliding in the mud, positioning yourself as the only barrier between the monster and the innocent.

"Water Breathing, Second Form: Water Wheel."

You leaped, twisting your body to create a vertical circle of rushing water. But the form was sloppy. The arc lacked the necessary torque, the water flickering and dissipating before the blade could bite deep. The demon didn't even flinch. A single, lightning-fast swipe of its claw tore through your side.

The impact sent you spiraling across the gravel. You hit the ground hard, the air leaving your lungs in a violent wheeze. Hot blood blossomed across your ribs, soaking through your uniform. You tried to push yourself up, but your arms shook. The demon lunged, its claws poised to shred the child.

You screamed, a raw sound of desperation, and threw yourself forward. You didn't have the strength for a form, so you simply thrust the blade upward, blocking a lethal strike with a jarring clang of steel. The force drove you into the earth, the blade vibrating painfully in your grip. You stared up at the demon, seeing your own reflection in its yellow eyes—small, broken, and failing.

Then, the air changed.

A sudden, oppressive stillness descended, as if the rain itself had frozen in mid-air. A blur of deep blue and mismatched haori flickered in your peripheral vision. There was no sound of a footstep, only the sudden, sharp whistle of a blade cutting through the wind.

"Water Breathing, Eleventh Form: Dead Calm."

The world went silent. The demon's claws, which had been inches from your face, stopped instantly. A ripple of crystalline water expanded outward, a perfect circle of tranquility that neutralized every attack. In a heartbeat, the demon's head slid from its shoulders, the cut so clean the creature didn't even realize it was dead until its body began to crumble into ash.

You blinked, staring at the man standing before you. He wore a haori split down the middle—one side a solid, deep red, the other a geometric pattern of green, yellow, and orange. His back was to you, his posture rigid, his eyes distant and cold as a winter lake.

"Is... are you a Hashira?"

Your voice was a fragile whisper, barely audible over the crackle of the fire. The man didn't turn. He didn't nod. He simply sheathed his sword with a clinical click. The silence he left behind was heavier than the battle. As the adrenaline ebbed, the pain in your side surged, a white-hot iron searing through your flesh. The world tilted, the orange flames of the village blurring into a haze of gray, and you collapsed into the mud.

When consciousness returned, it came with the smell of antiseptic and dried lavender. You opened your eyes to a ceiling of polished wood and white linens. The light was soft, filtered through paper shoji screens. Every muscle in your body felt as though it had been tenderized with a hammer.

A woman leaned over you, her purple eyes shimmering with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. She wore a butterfly-wing haori that fluttered with every slight movement. A small, permanent smile played on her lips, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Good morning, sleepyhead. You really pushed your luck, didn't you?"

You tried to speak, but your throat felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. You managed a small cough, your gaze drifting to the bandages wrapped tightly around your torso.

"Where..."

The Butterfly Mansion, Shinobu Kocho replied, her voice an airy, melodic chime. "I am the Insect Hashira. You were brought here in a state that would have made a coroner blush. Truly impressive that you managed to keep a demon at bay for that long with such... underdeveloped forms."

You winced, the sting of her words mirroring the ache in your ribs. You looked down at your hands, still shaking slightly.

"The man... the one who saved me..."

Shinobu tilted her head, her smile widening."Ah, Tomioka-san. The Water Hashira. He is a man of very few words. In fact, he barely speaks at all. He mentioned that you held your ground to protect a child. "

You closed your eyes, the image of that effortless strike flashing through your mind. The way the water had obeyed him, the absolute certainty in his movement. It wasn't just strength, it was a perfection you had spent years chasing and never touching.

"I want to be like that," you whispered.

Shinobu chuckled. "A daunting goal. Most people find Tomioka-san's personality as repellent as a wet blanket, but his skill is undeniable. Now, stay still. If you rip those stitches, I will have to use a much larger needle."

Days passed in a blur of bitter medicines and grueling physical therapy. You pushed yourself harder than the nurses recommended, desperate to return to your training. You spent your afternoons in the gardens of the mansion, practicing your swings with a wooden sword, imagining the fluid grace of the Eleventh Form.

Meanwhile, at the headquarters of the Demon Slayer Corps, the atmosphere was far less serene. The Hashiras stood in a semi-circle on a pebbled courtyard, the sunlight filtering through the canopy of ancient trees.

The air was thick with the distinct personalities of the strongest slayers. Sanemi Shinazugawa, the Wind Hashira, stood with his arms crossed, his scarred chest heaving with a restless, aggressive energy. Beside him, the others waited in a silence that was broken only by the distant call of a crow.

Oyakata-sama entered the courtyard, his presence acting like a cooling balm on the tension. The Hashiras immediately knelt, their heads bowed in absolute reverence.

"My children," he began, his voice a soft, soothing melody that commanded attention. "I have something to share with you. A young slayer recently defended a village with great courage. Despite her lack of mastery over the Water Breathing style, she held a demon at bay until Giyuu arrived. It is a rare thing to find such spirit in a female water user of her rank."

The Hashiras shifted. Giyuu stood at the edge of the group, his expression a mask of indifference, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond the horizon.

"I believe," Oyakata-sama continued, "that she possesses a spark that could be nurtured. Giyuu, I suggest that you take this girl as your Tsuguko."

A sudden, sharp burst of laughter erupted from the group. Sanemi snorted, a jagged sound of derision.

"Are you kidding me?" Sanemi barked, glancing sideways at Giyuu. "Tomioka doesn't even like people. He thinks he's too good to stand next to us, let alone teach some brat how to swing a sword. He's not fit to guide anyone because he doesn't believe he belongs here in the first place."

Giyuu didn't flinch. He didn't even look at Sanemi.

"I am not like you," Giyuu replied, his voice flat and devoid of inflection.

Sanemi's face contorted, a vein pulsing in his temple." What the hell is that supposed to mean? You arrogant piece of trash! Say it to my face!"

The tension spiked, the air vibrating with Sanemi's growing rage. But Oyakata-sama spoke again, and the wind seemed to die down instantly.

"Now, now. I respect Giyuu's decision, but I also believe that it is never too late to see what a dedicated student can achieve. Giyuu, the choice is yours, but I ask you to consider the potential of a soul that refuses to break."

Giyuu remained silent for a long moment. His internal world was a storm of doubt and old ghosts, a crushing weight of perceived failure that told him he had no right to lead anyone. He looked at his hands, then back at the distant trees.

"I have nothing to teach her," he said softly.

The meeting adjourned shortly after, leaving a lingering sense of frustration in the air.

Later that evening, you were sitting on the porch of the Butterfly Mansion, watching the moon climb the sky, when Shinobu approached you. She carried a tray of tea, her steps silent on the wooden floor.

"You'll never guess what happened at the meeting today," she said, setting the tray down.

You looked up, blinking. "What meeting?"

"The Hashira meeting. Oyakata-sama suggested that you become Tomioka-san's Tsuguko."

The tea cup in your hand nearly slipped. You felt a jolt of electricity run down your spine, a sudden, soaring hope that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

"Me? His Tsuguko? But I'm... I can barely execute the Third Form correctly."

Shinobu smiled, though there was a hint of pity in her eyes. "Indeed. And Tomioka-san rejected the idea. He claims he has nothing to teach you."

The hope didn't vanish, it curdled into a fierce, burning determination. You remembered the way he had sliced through the demon—the absolute, effortless power. The fact that he didn't think you were worthy only made you want his recognition more.

"I'll prove him wrong," you said, your voice gaining strength.

Shinobu tilted her head. "Oh? And how do you plan to do that? He is a very stubborn man."

"I'll train until I can't stand. I'll copy every movement he makes. I'll become someone he can't ignore."

For the next month, your life became a cycle of agony and repetition. You woke before the sun, your muscles screaming as you pushed your body to the limit. You begged Shinobu for every scrap of information she had on Giyuu's fighting style, his preferences, and the way he breathed.

You spent hours in the woods, hacking at bamboo stalks, trying to mimic the fluid, sweeping motions of the Water Breathing styles. You visualized the water not as a tool, but as an extension of your own blood. You failed. You fell. You bled. You bruised your shins and blistered your palms until the skin peeled away in raw, red strips.

But you didn't stop.

You didn't know that Giyuu was watching.

He would appear at the edge of the clearing, hidden by the deep shadows of the cedar trees. He watched you struggle, watched your form buckle under the weight of your own desperation. At first, he felt a flicker of annoyance. Why was this girl wasting her time? He saw his own younger self in your frantic movements—the same blind drive, the same refusal to accept limitation.

One evening, as the sky turned a bruised purple, you were attempting a complex rotation. Your foot slipped on a damp root, and you went down hard, your wooden sword clattering across the stones. You stayed there for a moment, face-down in the dirt, your chest heaving.

"Why do you want to be my Tsuguko so badly?"

The voice was sudden and cold. You bolted upright, spinning around to see Giyuu standing five feet away. He looked like a ghost in the moonlight, his expression unreadable, his eyes two dark voids.

You scrambled to your feet, nearly tripping over your own sword. You bowed deeply, your forehead almost touching the grass.

"Because I want to be like you!" you exclaimed, your voice cracking. "I want to be a strong slayer! I want to be able to protect people without failing!"

Giyuu stared at you. He didn't see a student, he saw a mirror of a grief he had spent years trying to bury. He simply sighed, a sound of profound weariness, and turned his back on you.

He walked away without another word, leaving you alone in the darkening woods.

The rejection stung worse than the demon's claws. Over the next week, you tried to approach him three more times. Once, you tried to show him a corrected stance,he walked past you as if you were a piece of furniture. Another time, you brought him a small offering of ohagi, hoping to break the ice, he looked at the sweets, then at you, and told you that you were wasting your time.

You began to believe that the Water Hashira truly had no room in his heart for anyone else. The fire in you didn't go out, but it simmered down into a quiet, aching persistence.

One night, during a torrential downpour that turned the training grounds into a swamp, you were practicing the Fourth Form: Striking Tide. You were exhausted, your vision blurring, your movements becoming sluggish. You swung the sword, but your wrist was too loose, causing the blade to wobble and lose its momentum.

A hand suddenly gripped your wrist.

The touch was firm and calloused, the grip like a vice. You gasped, freezing in place. Giyuu was standing behind you, his chest nearly touching your back. He didn't say a word. He simply shifted your grip, rotating your wrist two inches to the left and straightening your elbow.

"Feel the flow," he whispered, his voice right next to your ear. "You are fighting the water. Stop fighting it. Become it."

Before you could even breathe, he released you and stepped back. He didn't look at you. He didn't explain. He simply vanished back into the rain, leaving the scent of cold ozone and old fabric behind.

You stood there, drenched and shivering, but your heart was racing. You tried the swing again, applying the correction he had given you. The blade sliced through the air with a sharp, clean hiss, the movement fluid and effortless.

For the first time, you felt it. The ripple.

The next day, you returned from a low-ranking mission. You had tracked a swamp demon through a muddy ravine, and while you had won, you had returned with a deep gash across your forearm and a fever that made your head swim.

As you limped toward your room at the Butterfly Mansion, you noticed something sitting on the wooden ledge beside your door. It was a small, ceramic jar of high-grade medicinal salve and a bundle of clean linen bandages.

You stared at the medicine, a strange warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with the fever.

Unaware, Giyuu had stopped a Kakushi in the hallway an hour earlier.

The Kakushi had been trembling, bowing frantically as the Water Hashira loomed over him.

"Listen," Giyuu had said, his voice low. "That girl... the one training under the Water style. She is clumsy. She gets injured too often. Assign someone to assist her with her recovery after every mission. Ensure she has the proper salves. Do not tell her I ordered this."

The Kakushi had nodded vigorously, terrified and confused, and hurried away.

Giyuu watched from the rooftops, his silhouette blending into the gray sky. He watched you find the medicine, watched the way your shoulders relaxed and the small, hopeful smile that touched your lips. He didn't understand why he was doing it. He told himself it was merely to ensure a corps asset wasn't wasted due to poor self-care. But as he watched you, the void in his chest felt slightly less empty.

A few days later, Giyuu was perched on a thick branch of a wisteria tree, his eyes narrowed as he observed your training from a distance. You were moving better now. Your forms were tighter, your breathing more synchronized. You were no longer just mimicking him, you were starting to find your own rhythm within the water.

"Ara ara, Tomioka-san."

Giyuu didn't jump, but his shoulders stiffened. Shinobu appeared beside him, landing as lightly as a feather on the branch. She leaned in, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Are you attached to someone?" she teased, her voice a playful purr. "I didn't know you had it in you to be so... attentive. Watching her from the shadows like a lonely crow. It's almost romantic."

Giyuu turned his gaze back to you. He saw you slip, laugh at yourself, and immediately get back up to try again. He saw the grit in your eyes and the way you refused to give up, even when the world seemed to tell you that you weren't enough.

"No," Giyuu replied.

The word was short, clipped, and final. He stood up and leaped from the branch, disappearing into the forest in a single, fluid motion.

But as he walked away, his hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. For the first time in years, he didn't feel the crushing weight of the ghosts behind him. Instead, he felt the pull of the current, and the quiet, steady presence of someone who refused to let him stay alone in the cold.

You sat on the edge of the engawa, your toes digging into the polished wood, watching a single leaf spiral down toward the koi pond.

Shinobu Kocho drifted beside you, her footsteps nonexistent. She held a tray of medicinal tea, the steam curling upward in lazy ribbons.

"He hates me, doesn't he?"

The question slipped out before you could catch it. You didn't look at her, you kept your gaze fixed on the orange fish darting beneath the surface of the water.

Shinobu let out a light, tinkling laugh that sounded like wind chimes in a breeze. She set the tea down with a soft clink.

"My, such a gloomy thought. Why on earth would you think Tomioka-san hates you?"

"He doesn't talk to me," you whispered, your shoulders slouching. "He looks through me like I'm a ghost. When I try to help, he tells me I'm wasting my time. If he actually liked me, or even tolerated me—he wouldn't be so... cold."

Shinobu leaned in, her purple eyes shimmering with an amused, knowing glint. She tilted her head, a stray lock of hair brushing her cheek.

"Tomioka-san is a man of very specific settings. He is either 'completely indifferent' or 'intensely focused.' There is no middle ground for him."

She paused, her smile widening.

"Believe me, if he truly hated you, he wouldn't look at you at all. To Giyuu, the things he dislikes simply cease to exist. The fact that he bothers to tell you that you're wasting your time is, in his own strange language, a form of engagement."

You frowned, unconvinced. "That's a very depressing way to be liked."

"Welcome to the experience of knowing Giyuu Tomioka," Shinobu chirped, patting your shoulder before gliding away.

The uncertainty followed you into the night, and later, into the depths of a mountain forest where the air tasted of damp earth and rot.

The mission had seemed routine—a series of disappearances in a logging village. But as the moon reached its zenith, the atmosphere curdled. The trees seemed to lean inward, their branches like skeletal fingers clawing at the silver sky.

Then, the pressure hit.

It wasn't a gradual increase, it was a physical blow, an oppressive weight that slammed into your lungs. From the shadows emerged a creature with skin the color of bruised plums and eyes that glowed with a predatory, iridescent sheen. Etched into its iris was the kanji for Lower Moon.

Panic flared, a cold spark in your gut, but you suppressed it. You remembered the wooden sword, the blisters, the hours of failing in the rain. You remembered the way Giyuu’s blade had looked—absolute and unwavering.

I have to prove it, you thought, your grip tightening on your Nichirin sword. I can't be the girl who needs saving.

"Water Breathing, Third Form: Flowing Dance!"

You leaped, your blade carving a serpentine path through the air. The demon laughed, a sound like grinding stones. With a flick of its wrist, it unleashed a wave of solidified blood—jagged, crystalline shards that tore through the underbrush.

You pivoted, the movement fluid, but your timing was off. A shard sliced through your shoulder, the pain a sudden, white-hot spike. You gasped, stumbling back, but you didn't stop. You lunged forward, ignoring the blood soaking through your uniform, throwing yourself into a flurry of strikes.

The demon was too fast. It moved in a blur, its claws raking across your ribs, sending you spiraling into a cedar tree. The impact knocked the wind from your lungs, leaving you gasping, your vision swimming in a haze of red and gray.

You tried to push yourself up, your arms shaking violently. Your sword lay a few feet away, glinting in the moonlight. The demon loomed over you, its iridescent eyes wide with hunger.

"Such a spirited little thing," it hissed, its voice a wet rattle. "I'll savor the way your hope breaks."

As the demon raised its claw for the killing blow, the world suddenly went silent.

The rain, which had begun to fall in a light drizzle, seemed to freeze. A sudden, violent gust of wind swept through the clearing, carrying the scent of cold ozone and ancient grief.

Water Breathing, Ninth Form: Splashing Water Flow.

The demon’s strike didn't just stop, it vanished. A ripple of crystalline water expanded from a central point, neutralizing every ounce of the demon's momentum. In a single, seamless motion, a blur of mismatched fabric flickered.

The demon’s head slid from its shoulders before it could even blink.

Giyuu stood there, his back to you, his blade already halfway back in its sheath. The silence that followed was heavier than the battle.

As the demon crumbled into ash, Giyuu turned. His blue eyes weren't cold this time, they were turbulent. He looked at your broken form, the blood staining the dirt, and for a split second, the present vanished.

He wasn't seeing you. He was seeing a boy with a peach-colored haori and a smile that had been extinguished too soon. He was seeing the ghosts of everyone he had failed, the crushing weight of a survival he felt he hadn't earned.

Not again, a voice screamed in his head.

He realized then that his silence wasn't a shield, it was a weapon he had been accidentally wielding against the only person who had looked at him with genuine admiration in years. By trying to protect you from his world, he had left you to face it alone and unprepared.

The rage that flared in him wasn't directed at the demon, or even at you. It was a cold, searing anger directed inward.

Without a word, he knelt beside you. He didn't ask if you were okay—the blood on your chest answered that. He slid one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you with an effortless strength that made you feel suddenly, terrifyingly small.

You leaned your head against his chest, hearing the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heart.

"I... I almost had it," you whispered, your voice a ragged scrape.

Giyuu didn't respond. He simply tightened his grip and leaped through the canopy, heading back toward the Butterfly Mansion.

When you woke up, the world was soft. The smell of antiseptic and dried lavender filled the room. You were lying on your back, your torso wrapped in tight, clean bandages.

You expected the door to slide open and for Shinobu to enter with her teasing smile. Instead, the silhouette in the doorway was rigid and familiar.

Giyuu stepped into the room. He didn't speak. He didn't scold you for your recklessness or tell you that you had been foolish to challenge a Lower Moon alone. He simply walked to the side of your bed and sat down on a low stool.

He reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the bandages on your arm. His touch was surprisingly gentle, the callouses of his palms grazing your skin. He began to check the dressing, his movements methodical and precise.

You watched him, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The silence stretched, thick and expectant.

"I wasn't strong enough," you whispered, a tear escaping and tracing a path down your temple. "I tried so hard, but I'm just... not enough."

Giyuu stopped moving. He didn't look up, his gaze remaining on the white linen of the bandage. For a long time, he said nothing. Then, his voice broke the silence, low and steady.

"You didn't break."

You blinked. "What?"

"Your spirit," he said, finally meeting your eyes. His gaze was no longer a winter lake, there was a flicker of something warm there, a spark of recognition. "You fought a Lower Moon and you didn't break. Most slayers would have collapsed in terror. You fought until your body gave out."

He tied the knot of the bandage with a clinical click of efficiency.

"From now on, you will train under me."

The breath left your lungs in a violent wheeze. "You... you'll take me as your Tsuguko?"

"I will," he replied, standing up. He regained his stoic mask, his expression returning to its usual indifference, but he didn't leave immediately. "Be prepared. I am not a patient teacher."

The training that followed was a descent into a special kind of hell.

Giyuu did not believe in gradual progression. He believed in immersion. He pushed you through the grueling process of Total Concentration Breathing, demanding you maintain the state not just during combat, but every second of every day.

"Again," he would say, his voice flat.

You would be drenched in sweat, your lungs burning as if you had swallowed hot coals, your muscles trembling with exhaustion. You would execute the form, your blade slicing through the air.

"The wrist is too high," he'd remark. "Again."

You would repeat the motion a hundred times, a thousand times, until your arms felt like lead. And then, just as you felt you were about to collapse, you would nail the movement—a perfect, fluid arc of water that mirrored his own.

"Good."

That single word was like a reward of gold. You would beam at him, your face flushed and beaming, and he would simply turn away, though you noticed he didn't tell you to keep going for another ten minutes, giving you a moment to breathe.

He also developed a strange, silent obsession with your nutrition. Before every training session, a bowl of hearty rice and grilled fish would appear on the porch. After every mission, he would ensure you ate until you were full, often standing silently by the door, watching you with an unreadable expression until the last grain of rice was gone.

As the months passed, you began to notice the cracks in his armor.

You noticed that he barely slept. You would see him in the early hours of the morning, staring at the moon with a look of profound longing, his posture sagging just a fraction. You realized he carried a weight that no amount of training could lift, a grief that lived in the marrow of his bones.

The other slayers began to gossip. You’d overhear them in the hallways of the headquarters.

"Why did Tomioka-san take a Tsuguko?" one would whisper. "He doesn't even like us. Why her?"

"Maybe she's just a tool for him," another would suggest. "Or maybe he's just bored."

You didn't care. You knew the truth in the quiet moments—the way he would subtly shift his position to block the wind when you were resting, or the way he would linger a second longer than necessary when correcting your stance.

One afternoon, after a particularly brutal session on the fifth form, you flopped onto the grass, staring up at the canopy of cedar trees.

"You know," you panted, "normal teachers usually encourage their students. They say things like 'Great job!' or 'You're doing amazing!'"

Giyuu, who was standing perfectly still beside you, didn't blink.

"I corrected your fifth form yesterday," he replied.

You sat up, blinking in disbelief. "That's encouragement?"

Giyuu went silent. He looked away, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. And then, it happened.

It was barely a movement—a slight softening of the corners of his mouth, a ghost of a curve that lasted for less than a second. It wasn't a full smile, but it was the closest thing to one you had ever seen.

Your heart leaped. "Did you just smile? You smiled! Giyuu, you actually—"

In an instant, his face snapped back into a mask of stone. He turned on his heel and walked away, his haori fluttering behind him.

"I did not," he called back, though there was no heat in his voice.

On missions, the dynamic shifted into a comfortable, unspoken rhythm. Giyuu always walked ahead, his pace brisk and purposeful. To an outsider, it looked like he was leaving you in the dust, indifferent to your struggle to keep up.

But you noticed the nuance.

Every few dozen paces, he would slow down—just a fraction, an almost imperceptible deceleration. He would stop abruptly by a tree or a bend in the path, pretending to scan the perimeter or examine a footprint in the dirt.

"Looking for something?" you'd ask, catching up to him and breathing hard.

He wouldn't look at you. "The scent of the demon is faint here."

You laughed, a bright sound that seemed to startle the birds in the trees. "You could've just said you were waiting for me, you know."

Giyuu didn't answer. He simply started walking again, but this time, he stayed exactly one step ahead of you, his shoulder occasionally brushing yours.

The culmination of your hard work came during a joint exercise with the other slayers. You executed a perfect Water Breathing form, the movement so seamless it looked like a ribbon of silk dancing in the wind.

"Good," Giyuu said.

You beamed, but the moment was punctured by a sneer from a nearby slayer.

"Tch. Look at her," the man whispered, loud enough for you to hear. "She's only improving because the Water Hashira favors her. It's pathetic, really. I bet she does whatever she has to do to get that kind of attention."

You felt a sting of annoyance, but you brushed it off. You didn't need the approval of someone who spent more time talking than training.

However, over the next few weeks, something strange happened. The insults stopped. Completely.

Whenever you walked toward the group of slayers who had been mocking you, they didn't sneer. Instead, they froze. Their eyes widened, and they scrambled backward as if they had seen a Upper Moon in the flesh.

One afternoon, you approached a group of three slayers. As you got closer, they stopped talking mid-sentence, their faces turning pale. They looked terrified, their gazes fixed on something just behind your shoulder.

You turned around.

Giyuu was standing there. He wasn't saying anything. He wasn't even drawing his sword. He was simply... staring. His eyes were narrowed, his expression one of absolute, freezing intensity. He looked like a predator deciding exactly where to bite.

The slayers bolted, scattering in three different directions without a word.

Later, during your evening training, you leaned against your sword and looked at him.

"Did you scare them?"

Giyuu continued to polish his blade, his movements rhythmic and calm.

"Maybe," he answered.

You felt a warmth spread through your chest, a flutter of something that felt like a thousand butterflies taking flight. You stepped closer to him, the space between you shrinking.

"You're actually kind of scary when you want to be," you teased.

Giyuu stopped polishing. He looked at you, and for the first time, the distance in his eyes was completely gone. He reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before he gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers were cold, but the gesture was searing.

"I don't like people talking about my Tsuguko," he whispered.

The world seemed to shrink until it was just the two of you, the scent of the forest and the sound of your synchronized breathing. You realized then that Giyuu hadn't just accepted you as a student, he had let you into the fortress of his heart, a place he had kept locked for years.

Shinobu noticed it first, of course.

She found Giyuu sitting on the porch of the Butterfly Mansion, watching you practice your forms in the courtyard. He wasn't just observing, he was relaxed. His shoulders weren't hunched, and the permanent crease between his eyebrows had smoothed out.

"Ara ara," Shinobu purred, leaning against a pillar. "You've become quite the softy, Tomioka-san. I've never seen you look at anyone with such... tenderness."

Giyuu didn't pull away. He didn't deny it.

"She is persistent," he replied simply.

"And you are fond of her," Shinobu countered, her eyes sparkling. "The Kakushi are talking, you know. They say the Water Hashira actually talks now. That he's almost human when she's around."

Giyuu looked back at you. You had just finished a form and were laughing, wiping sweat from your forehead with your sleeve. You caught his eye and gave him a wide, triumphant grin.

For the first time in his life, Giyuu didn't feel the need to look away. He didn't feel the ghost of Sabito telling him he didn't belong. He felt the pull of the current, steady and strong, drawing him toward a future where he wasn't alone in the cold.

He didn't smile—not fully—but the look in his eyes was enough. He was no longer just the Water Hashira, he was a man who had found something worth protecting, someone who had taught him that the water didn't just wash things away—it could also sustain life.

The forest air tasted of copper and ozone, the lingering afterglow of a battle that had stretched into the gray hours of dawn. You slumped against the gnarled root of an ancient cedar, your lungs whistling with every breath. Your Nichirin sword lay beside you, the blade chipped, reflecting the pale, sickly light of the waking sun.

Your hands shook. It wasn't just the cold, it was a deep, systemic tremor born of sheer exhaustion. You had fought the demon for six hours, a grueling dance of evasion and desperate strikes that had pushed your Total Concentration Breathing to its absolute limit.

A shadow fell over you.

Giyuu didn't speak. He never did when the silence was already heavy enough to drown in. He simply sank onto the damp earth beside you. The scent of cold rain and cedar followed him, a grounding presence in the haze of your fatigue.

Without a word, he reached for the medical kit at his hip. He took your wrist in his hand. His grip was firm, his skin cool against your feverish heat. He began to unwind a fresh roll of bandages, his movements methodical and precise.

"I can do it," you whispered, your voice a dry rasp.

"Your hands are unstable," he replied.

His voice was a low drone, devoid of judgment but absolute in its observation. As he wound the linen around your forearm, his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of your wrist. The touch was light, almost accidental, but it sent a jolt through you that eclipsed the pain of your wounds.

The silence shifted. It was no longer the silence of exhaustion, but something thick and electric. You looked up at him, and for a moment, Giyuu didn't pull away. His blue eyes, usually as stagnant as a frozen pond, seemed to ripple. He lingered, his thumb grazing the pulse point of your wrist, feeling the frantic, hammering rhythm of your heart.

The air between you tightened, the space shrinking until you could feel the heat radiating from his chest. You leaned in, drawn by a gravity you didn't understand.

A twig snapped in the distance.

Giyuu recoiled instantly, his hand dropping as if he had touched a hot stove. He stood up in one fluid motion, his gaze snapping toward the tree line where another slayer was approaching, calling out a greeting.

Giyuu turned away, his haori fluttering like a warning flag.

That felt dangerous, he thought, his jaw tightening. He didn't know what 'that' was, only that the sudden urge to pull you closer had been more violent than any strike he had ever delivered.

The weeks that followed were marked by a return to the grueling rhythm of training. Giyuu was a shadow that loomed over every movement, every breath, every failed strike.

One afternoon, while you were catching your breath by the training dummies, a young slayer—a boy with a bright, eager smile and a penchant for talking too much—approached you.

"You're the one Tomioka-san took as a Tsuguko, right?" the boy asked, leaning in with an open, friendly expression. "I've seen your forms. They're incredible. Maybe we could train together sometime? I've been working on a variation of the Wind Breathing style that might complement your fluidity."

You blinked, surprised by the sudden attention. You gave a small, polite laugh, stepping back slightly.

"That's very kind of you," you replied, your voice soft. "But I'm a Tsuguko. My schedule is entirely managed by Tomioka-san. I don't think I have the time."

It was a polite decline, a standard boundary. But you didn't notice the figure standing twenty paces behind you, partially obscured by the shade of a maple tree.

Giyuu had seen everything. He had seen the boy's eager lean, the brightness of his smile, and the way you had laughed—a sound that usually belonged only to the quiet spaces of his estate.

The next training session was a descent into a different kind of hell.

Giyuu was silent. More silent than usual. The air around him felt pressurized, as if a storm were brewing just beneath the surface of his skin.

"Again," he commanded.

You executed the Fourth Form, the blade carving a graceful arc.

"The angle is off," he said, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. He stepped forward, his hand gripping your wrist to correct your stance. He didn't just guide you, he shoved your arm into position with a harshness that left a red mark on your skin.

"Giyuu, that hurt," you gasped.

He didn't apologize. He didn't even look you in the eye.

"If a demon strikes you with that much force, you'll lose the arm. Again."

The session ended two hours early. Giyuu simply turned his back on you and walked toward his quarters without a word of critique or a single "good."

You stood in the center of the courtyard, your chest heaving, confused and stung.

"Are you angry?" you called out to his retreating back.

He paused, his silhouette rigid against the setting sun.

"No," he said.

But that night, the sound of a sword slicing through the air echoed from the training grounds long after midnight. Giyuu trained alone, his strikes vicious and erratic. He hated it—the irrational, searing irritation that had clawed at his gut the moment that boy had spoken to you. He didn't understand the feeling, he had spent years perfecting the art of indifference. To feel this—this possessive, jagged edge of jealousy—felt like a failure of his discipline.

The young slayer never approached the estate again.

The tension remained, a simmering current beneath the surface, until the summons came. A joint mission. A village in the northern peaks where the air was thin and the shadows were long.

You had barely entered the village when the atmosphere curdled. The scent of rot was overwhelming, a thick, cloying sweetness that signaled something far more dangerous than a standard demon.

Then, the pressure hit.

It was a physical blow, a weight that slammed into your lungs and forced you to your knees. From the canopy of the pines, a figure descended. He was pale, with eyes that burned like dying stars. Etched into his iris were the kanji for Upper Rank.

The battle was a blur of violence. Giyuu moved like a tidal wave, his blade a blur of blue and white, but the demon was a whirlwind of jagged obsidian shards.

The demon ignored Giyuu.

With a guttural laugh, the creature focused its entire predatory intent on you. It saw the bond, the subtle lean of Giyuu's posture toward you, and it exploited it.

"A little pet," the demon hissed, its voice like grinding glass. "Let's see how the stoic Water Hashira reacts when his favorite thing is torn to pieces."

You snarled, leaping forward. "I am not a pet!"

"Water Breathing, Seventh Form: Drop Ripple Thrust!"

You lunged, but the demon was faster. A shard of obsidian sliced through your thigh, and another tore through your side. You gasped, the world tilting. You tried to pivot, to find an opening, but the demon's speed was otherworldly.

Suddenly, Giyuu was there.

He didn't just intervene, he threw himself in front of you, his blade clashing against the obsidian with a sound that shook the earth. His expression was no longer stoic. It was a mask of raw, unfiltered fury.

"Get back!" he roared.

You felt a surge of frustration, a hot flare of anger in your chest. "I can fight! Don't protect me like I'm some fragile doll!"

Giyuu didn't listen. He fought with a desperation you had never seen, his forms becoming more aggressive, more violent. He was a man possessed, driven by a terror that far outweighed the danger of the Upper Moon.

The fight lasted until the first sliver of gold touched the horizon. The demon, realizing the sun was its enemy, retreated into the depths of a nearby cave, vanishing into the darkness before Giyuu could deliver the final blow.

But the victory was hollow.

You collapsed. The blood loss was too great. Your vision swam, the blue of the sky blending into the blue of Giyuu's haori as he slid across the dirt to catch you.

"You idiot," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Why did you push yourself so hard?"

You tried to answer, but the world went black.

When you woke, the world was the color of sterile white and lavender.

The ceiling of the Butterfly Mansion blurred into focus. Aoi stood over you, her expression a mix of sternness and concern as she changed your dressings.

"You're lucky to be alive," Aoi remarked, her voice crisp. "Another inch to the left and that shard would have punctured your lung."

You looked toward the door. It remained closed.

The first day passed. Then the second. Then the third.

Giyuu didn't come.

You lay in the bed, staring at the sliding door, waiting for the sound of his footsteps—that specific, light cadence that always signaled his arrival. But there was only the distant sound of other slayers training and the humming of the nurses.

A hollow ache formed in your chest, one that had nothing to do with your physical wounds. You missed him. You missed his silence, his harsh corrections, the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't watching.

It's stupid, you told yourself, staring at the ceiling. To like the Water Hashira. He's a wall of ice. He's a man who doesn't know how to be loved.

One afternoon, Shinobu drifted into the room, her purple eyes shimmering with a knowing glint.

"Still awake and brooding, I see," she chirped, setting a tray of medicine on the table.

"Shinobu," you whispered, "how is Giyuu? Have you seen him?"

Shinobu paused, her head tilting. "My, such a direct question. Is Tomioka-san avoiding you?"

You looked away, your throat tightening. "I don't know. He hasn't visited."

Shinobu let out a soft, melodic laugh, though there was something sympathetic in it.

"Believe me, he isn't avoiding you because he doesn't care," Shinobu said, leaning in. "When the two of you were brought back here, I saw his face. For the first time in the years I've known him, Tomioka-san looked truly panicked. He looked like the world had ended."

You blinked. "Panicked?"

"He was shaking," Shinobu confirmed. "He couldn't even speak. He just stood there, staring at your blood on his hands. He's a man who handles grief by pushing everything away. He's terrified, you see. He's terrified of how much it would hurt if you actually died."

The words settled in your heart, a warm, heavy weight.

But as the days turned into weeks, the silence continued. You returned to the Tomioka estate to resume your duties, but Giyuu was a ghost. He was always on a mission, always in a meeting, always just out of reach.

The other slayers, sensing a shift in the wind, began to whisper again.

"I told you," one slayer murmured in the hallway, loud enough for you to hear. "The Water Hashira just lost interest. The 'favorite' slayer isn't so special after all."

"Probably realized she's more trouble than she's worth," another added with a sneer.

You kept your head down, the words stinging like salt in a fresh wound. You didn't believe them, but the silence from Giyuu was a powerful weapon.

One afternoon, Shinobu arrived at the estate with a mischievous spark in her eyes.

"Ara ara! Guess who's here for a report?" she purred. "Tomioka-san is currently in the main hall. I suggest you go talk to him before he vanishes back into his shell."

You didn't need to be told twice. You stood up, your heart hammering against your ribs, and ran toward the hall.

When you slid the door open, Giyuu was already looking at you. He stood rigid, his blue eyes scanning your face, searching for the scars, the lingering pain, the signs of weakness.

You didn't stop. You smiled—a wide, triumphant grin—and ran toward him.

But as you reached him, Giyuu stepped back. He didn't embrace you. He didn't even reach out. He placed a hand on your shoulder, not to pull you in, but to keep a distance between you.

"You should be resting," he said, his voice cold, distant. "Your recovery isn't complete."

The sudden rejection hit you like a physical blow. The smile vanished from your face. You looked at his hand on your shoulder—the distance he was intentionally maintaining—and something inside you snapped.

The frustration of the weeks of silence, the loneliness of the recovery room, and the cruelty of the other slayers' words all surged to the surface. Your vision blurred. A single, hot tear escaped, tracing a path down your cheek. Then another.

You didn't sob, you just stood there, leaking tears, your shoulders shaking.

Giyuu froze. The moment he saw the tears, the mask of indifference shattered. His eyes widened, and he actually stumbled backward, his hands hovering in the air, completely lost.

"Why... why are you crying?" he asked, his voice cracking.

He looked around frantically, as if searching for a manual on how to handle a crying woman. He looked genuinely panicked, his composure evaporating in seconds.

"I thought you hated me," you whispered, your voice trembling. "I thought I was just... a tool. Or a burden."

"No," he gasped. He stepped forward, his hesitation vanishing. He grabbed your arm, not harshly this time, but with a desperate urgency. "No, that's not it. Come. We're going back to my quarters. We need to talk."

He didn't wait for an answer. He began pulling you along, his grip firm, leading you away from the prying eyes of the other slayers, who watched in absolute shock as the frozen Water Hashira practically dragged his Tsuguko away.

The door to his private room slid shut with a definitive click.

The silence returned, but this time it was different. It was heavy with things unsaid, a pressurized chamber of emotion. Giyuu didn't let go of your hand. He led you to the center of the room and finally stopped.

He wouldn't look at you. He stared at the tatami mat, his chest heaving.

"It's my fault," he said, his voice a low murmur.

You looked at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

Giyuu let out a long, shuddering sigh. The sound was jagged, breaking the oppressive quiet. He finally turned, meeting your eyes, and the vulnerability there was staggering. The stoic mask he wore for the world hadn't just slipped, it had shattered.

"I shouldn't have taken you as my Tsuguko," he whispered. His voice was a dry rasp, stripped of its usual composure. "I knew the risks. I knew the world we live in. I thought I could keep you at a distance... that I could teach you to survive without letting you... without letting myself..."

He stopped, his throat bobbing as he struggled to find the words. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.

"Without letting yourself what?" you asked softly.

"Attach like this," he confessed. The words sounded as if they were being ripped from his throat, raw and bleeding. "When I saw you hurt in that fight... when I thought the demon had actually..."

He closed his eyes, a violent shudder passing through his frame. He looked less like a Hashira and more like a drowning man reaching for a surface he couldn't find.

"I was scared. I have never been so fucking scared in my entire life. I couldn't look at you because every time I did, I remembered the sight of your blood. I thought if I stayed away, the fear would go away. I thought if I pushed you back, I could protect you from the part of me that can't handle losing anyone else."

The admission hit you like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. The distance he had meticulously built between you—the cold shoulder, the curt orders, the avoided glances—wasn't born of dislike, but of a terrified, suffocating love.

You stepped closer, closing the gap he had fought so hard to maintain. The heat radiating from him was a contrast to the cool evening breeze.

"I was scared too," you whispered, your voice trembling. "I was afraid of the demon. I was afraid of the pain."

You reached up, your fingers grazing his jaw before cupping his face. His skin was cool, but he leaned into your touch with a desperation that bordered on agony.

"But I was more afraid of leaving you. I was more afraid of a world where you didn't know I..."

Giyuu's breath hitched. The admission seemed to break the last remaining seal on his heart. His eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide, searching your face for any sign of hesitation. He didn't find any.

"Don't say things like that," he groaned, the words a low vibration against your palm.

He didn't move at first. He stayed frozen, his gaze dropping to your lips. You could see the war raging inside him—the instinct to protect you by pushing you away clashing with a starving, primal need to hold you. His chest heaved, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. He looked like he wanted to run and scream and pull you into his skin all at once. His hand rose, hovering near your waist, fingers twitching, fighting the urge to grab you.

The tension between you became a living thing, thick and electric. You could hear the frantic thrum of his heart, a drumming rhythm that matched your own. The silence was no longer empty, it was filled with everything he had suppressed for months.

Then, the dam broke.

Giyuu lunged forward, his mouth crashing against yours.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a collision, a desperate, starving release of weeks of tension and fear. It tasted of salt and longing. Giyuu's hands found your waist, his fingers digging into your hips with a strength that bordered on bruising, pulling you flush against him as if he were trying to merge your two bodies into one.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your fingers tangling in the dark, unruly silk of his hair. The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more feral. Giyuu groaned into your mouth, a sound of pure, unadulterated hunger. His tongue slid against yours in a rhythmic, demanding dance, tasting of peppermint and desperation. The sound of your mouths meeting was wet and sloppy, the exchange of saliva a frantic dialogue of need.

With a sudden, powerful movement, he pivoted, pushing you back until your shoulders hit the wooden wall with a soft thud. He didn't stop kissing you, he only pressed harder, his heavy frame pinning you in place. He felt like a mountain of muscle and heat, trapping you in the most delicious way possible.

The world outside the room ceased to exist. There were no demons, no Hashira, no duties. There was only the heat of his skin, the scent of cedar, and the desperate, heavy sound of synchronized breathing. His lips moved from your mouth to the sensitive curve of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. He sucked a patch of flesh near your collarbone, creating a loud, wet squelch as he drew your skin into his mouth, leaving a dark, blossoming mark that would be impossible to hide.

"Giyuu..." you gasped, your head falling back against the wall.

He didn't answer with words. His hand traveled upward, sliding under the fabric of your demon slayer uniform. His palm was hot, calloused from years of swordplay, as it brushed against the underside of your breast. You arched your back, a soft moan escaping your lips, your heart drumming a frantic rhythm against his chest.

He fumbled with the buttons of your uniform, his fingers shaking with a sudden, renewed urgency. Once the fabric parted, he cupped your breast, his thumb circling your nipple through the thin layer of your undergarment. You whimpered, the sensation sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. Giyuu groaned, his breath hot against your skin, and he tugged the fabric down, exposing you to the cool air and his burning gaze.

He stared at your breast for a heartbeat, his eyes dark with lust. Then, he leaned in, his mouth enveloping your nipple. The sensation was overwhelming—the wet heat of his tongue swirling around the peak, the suction creating a rhythmic pull that made your toes curl. He sucked greedily, the sound of his mouth on your skin a wet, rhythmic shlicking that echoed in the quiet room. You gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into the fabric of his haori, as he alternated between sucking and nipping at the sensitive bud.

Giyuu shifted his weight, his thigh sliding between your legs, pressing firmly against your center. You could feel the hard ridge of his cock through the thick fabric of his trousers, pulsing against you. The friction was intoxicating. You wrapped your leg around his waist, pulling him deeper into the crook of your thighs, wanting more of that oppressive, wonderful weight.

His other hand slid down, gripping your backside and lifting you slightly, forcing your pelvis to grind against him. A low, guttural growl ripped from his throat, a sound of pure animal need. He returned to your lips, his kiss now more frantic, his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth as if he were trying to consume you whole.

Suddenly, a voice drifted from the hallway, slicing through the haze of pleasure.

"Tomioka-san? Are you in there? I have the updated reports from the south village!"

The voice was unmistakable. Murata.

You froze, your eyes widening, the sudden shock snapping you back to reality. You tried to push Giyuu away, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

"Giyuu—" you whispered, panic flaring. "Someone's here!"

The door slid open with a sharp clatter.

Murata stepped in, his expression helpful and bright, clutching a stack of papers. "I thought I heard someone—"

In a flash of movement, Giyuu shifted. His reflexes, honed by years of combat, were instantaneous. He didn't let go of you, but he pivoted his body, using his broad shoulders and the sweeping expanse of his oversized haori to completely shield you from view. He effectively pinned you against the wall, his back acting as a living curtain that blocked Murata's line of sight entirely.

Murata blinked, staring at Giyuu's back. The Water Hashira was standing in a strange, rigid posture, his breathing still noticeably ragged.

"Uh... Tomioka-san? Why are you standing like that? Is everything okay?"

Giyuu didn't turn around. He didn't even flinch. His voice, when he spoke, was a low, dangerous growl that sounded like a warning from a predator protecting its mate.

"Leave the reports on the floor," Giyuu commanded. "And get out."

Murata jumped, nearly dropping the papers in surprise. The sheer intensity of Giyuu's tone was enough to make anyone flee. "Right! Yes! Sorry! I'll just... I'll go now!"

The door slammed shut with a definitive thud.

Giyuu didn't move for a long moment. He remained there, shielding you, his chest heaving against your back. Slowly, he turned back to you.

The sight was chaotic. Your lips were swollen and reddened, your hair a wild nest of tangles, and the collar of your uniform was skewed and open, revealing the dark, purple hickey he had branded onto your collarbone. Your face was flushed a deep, burning crimson, your eyes wide and shimmering with a mix of adrenaline and lingering desire.

Giyuu looked at you, his gaze scanning the marks he had left. The usual coldness in his eyes was gone, replaced by a simmering heat and a strange, newfound softness. He didn't laugh—that wasn't his way—but a slow, rare smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. It was a look of possession, a silent acknowledgement that you belonged to him just as much as he belonged to you.

The smirk made your heart leap, a fresh wave of shyness washing over you. You looked down, unable to maintain eye contact with the intensity of his gaze.

"You're red," he noted, his voice returning to its low, calm drone, though it held a playful edge you had never heard before.

"Shut up," you muttered, though there was no heat in it.

Giyuu sighed, but it was a contented sound. He reached out, his fingers gentle as he began to fix your uniform. He carefully buttoned the fabric back up, his knuckles brushing against your skin, sending small sparks through your nerves. He smoothed the collar over the mark on your neck, though he knew it wouldn't hide the evidence of his hunger.

As he finished, he paused, his hand lingering on your shoulder. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes finally, completely at peace. The storm had passed, leaving behind a profound, grounding stillness.

"I'm still pissed at Murata," he whispered, the smirk returning.

You let out a soft, breathless giggle, leaning into him. "I think he's just doing his job, Giyuu."

"His timing is abysmal," Giyuu replied, his voice dropping an octave.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he wrapped his arms around you in a tight, protective embrace, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He breathed you in—the scent of your skin mixed with the lingering aroma of his own cedar. For the first time in years, the void in his chest felt full. He didn't have to push you away to keep you safe; he just had to hold you close enough that the world couldn't tear you apart.

You closed your eyes, listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against your ear.

The Water Estate had long been a monument to solitude, a place where the only sounds were the rhythmic drip of eaves and the distant murmur of the stream. But the silence had shifted. It was no longer a void, it was a shared breath. In the weeks following that desperate night against the wooden wall, the air between Giyuu and you had transformed from a frozen tundra into a simmering, quiet warmth.

The training continued, the clash of wooden swords still echoing through the courtyard, but the nature of the lessons had changed. Giyuu no longer stood as a distant mountain, unreachable and cold. He was closer now, his hand lingering on your shoulder to correct your stance, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered instructions. He had become a sentinel, his protectiveness bordering on the obsessive.

The shift had culminated in a rare, formal request to Oyakata-sama. Giyuu had knelt before the Master, his voice steady but infused with an underlying urgency that few had ever heard. He had asked that you, his Tsuguko, no longer be dispatched on solo missions. He argued that your growth required his direct supervision, but the truth lived in the way his heart hammered against his ribs whenever you left his sight. He could not stomach the thought of a world where he might return to an empty estate. Oyakata-sama, with his usual serene wisdom, had granted the request, recognizing the bond that now anchored the Water Hashira to the living world.

One evening, the scent of rain lingered in the air as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and deep indigos. You had spent the day in a haze of exhaustion, your muscles aching from a rigorous session of forms. You were drifting in that heavy, golden space between wakefulness and sleep, your head resting on a soft pillow, when the sliding door creaked open.

You rubbed your eyes, blinking away the sleep, and saw him. Giyuu stood in the doorway, his haori dusted with the grime of travel, his expression weary but softening the moment his eyes landed on you.

A smile bloomed across your face, effortless and bright. You pushed yourself up and walked toward him, your bare feet padding softly on the tatami mats. Without a word, you collided with him, wrapping your arms around his waist and burying your face in the cool fabric of his uniform.

Giyuu let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension leaving his shoulders in one fluid motion. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against him, his grip possessive and tight. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin—a mix of soap and the faint, metallic tang of training. He didn't speak, he didn't need to. The way he pressed his forehead against your collarbone told you everything.

Slowly, he shifted his weight, sliding one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back. He lifted you in a seamless bridal carry, your head lolling against his chest. You could hear the steady, thrumming beat of his heart, a rhythm that felt like home. He carried you back to the futon, laying you down with a tenderness that felt almost fragile, before sliding in beside you.

The room was dim, lit only by the pale moonlight filtering through the shoji screens. You began to talk, your voice a sleepy murmur, recounting the small details of your day—the way a bird had perched on the training fence, the frustration of a missed strike, the quiet longing you had felt while he was away. Giyuu listened in his customary silence, but it was a living silence. He watched your lips move, his gaze tracing the curve of your jaw, his fingers lightly brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead.

When you noticed he hadn't spoken for a long time, you shifted, looking up at him with a flicker of confusion.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice a low, velvet rasp.

"You're very quiet tonight," you whispered.

"I am always quiet," he replied, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

He paused, his eyes searching yours. He reached out, his calloused thumb grazing your cheek.

"Do you want a haori?" he asked softly.

The question caught you off guard. A haori was more than just a garment; it was a symbol of status, of identity, and in the context of your relationship, a mark of belonging. You nodded excitedly, a small gasp escaping you as you buried your face back into his chest, your heart racing. He held you close, his chin resting atop your head, and together you drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The following morning, the estate was filled with the scent of grilled fish and steamed rice. Giyuu sat across from you, his movements methodical and calm. As you ate, he spoke up, his tone matter-of-fact.

"Your uniform will be changed," he announced.

You paused, a piece of fish halfway to your mouth. "Changed? Why?"

"The current one is worn. I have already assigned someone to tailor a new set for you, along with the haori."

You beamed, the thought of a custom haori making your stomach flutter. But as the meal ended, you noticed him preparing his gear. A frown tugged at your lips.

"Do you have a mission?" you asked, your voice dropping.

"Yes," he replied. "A demon sighting in the northern peaks. I leave shortly."

You pouted, the expression instinctive. The thought of the estate returning to its oppressive silence while he was gone felt like a physical weight. You didn't want to be alone in the vastness of the Water Estate, counting the hours until his return.

Giyuu noticed the slump of your shoulders and the way you avoided his gaze. He stood up and walked toward you, his presence enveloping.

"You can stay at the Kocho estate while I am away," he suggested. "Shinobu will keep you occupied, and you will not be alone."

The pout vanished, replaced by a bright smile. You nodded vigorously, leaning into him. Before he stepped out into the morning air, Giyuu leaned down and planted a slow, lingering kiss on your forehead. It was a promise, a silent vow that he would return.

The Butterfly Mansion was a stark contrast to the Water Estate. Where Giyuu's home was a study in minimalism and silence, Shinobu's was a whirlwind of activity, smelling of medicinal herbs, wisteria, and the sharp tang of antiseptic. You spent the first few hours talking with Shinobu, the Insect Hashira listening to you with her perpetual, enigmatic smile.

"And Tomioka-san arranged this?" Shinobu asked, her voice tilting with amusement. "How very... attentive of him. I suspect he's become quite the doting master."

You flushed, glancing away. "He's just being helpful."

"Of course," Shinobu replied, her eyes twinkling.

As you helped her organize some vials, the topic of your new uniform came up. You looked at her, a sudden wave of anxiety hitting you.

"Shinobu-san, do you know who is working on my uniform?"

"I'm afraid I don't. Tomioka-san handled the arrangements privately," she answered.

You bit your lip, your expression clouded. You had heard stories about the tailor who worked on some of the more... unconventional uniforms. Specifically, the one Mitsuri Kanroji wore. The thought of a chest-baring uniform made you shiver.

"I just hope it's not the person who made Mitsuri's," you muttered.

Shinobu paused, her gaze landing on you. She knew exactly who you were talking about. She also knew Tomioka's temperament—his quiet, intense desire to keep you shielded and modest. The idea of Tomioka allowing someone to make you a revealing uniform was laughable.

"I think you can breathe easy on that front," Shinobu said, though she didn't elaborate.

Suddenly, the sliding door crashed open with a violence that nearly knocked over a tray of medicine.

"Is this where the flashy festivities are happening?!"

Tengen Uzui strode into the room, his presence filling the space instantly. He was a mountain of muscle and gold, his gemstones catching the light and his expression one of arrogant confidence. He stopped in front of you, leaning down so his face was mere inches from yours, his eyes scanning you with a playful, predatory curiosity.

"So, this is the little bird Tomioka has been hiding in his nest," Tengen declared, his voice booming.

You jumped back, your face heating up. "Uzui-san!"

"Don't be so modest!" Tengen laughed, crossing his arms over his broad chest. He looked at Shinobu, then back to you, a smirk playing on his lips. "I've heard the rumors. The stoic, frozen Water Hashira has finally melted. Tell me, is he as boring in the bedroom as he is at the Hashira meetings, or does he actually have a flashy side when the doors are closed?"

"Uzui-san, please!" you squeaked, your face now a deep, burning crimson.

Shinobu sighed, though she didn't look particularly bothered. "Tengen, please try not to traumatize her. She's already stressed about her wardrobe."

Tengen let out a loud, boisterous laugh, leaning in closer to you, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial stage-whisper. "Don't let him fool you with that 'I'm not liked' act. A man who guards his Tsuguko that fiercely is a man with a very specific kind of hunger. I can see it in the way you're blushing. You've been well-tended to, haven't you?"

You couldn't even find words to respond, your brain short-circuiting under the intensity of his teasing. For the next hour, Tengen remained in the estate, ostensibly to deliver a report to Shinobu, but mostly to poke fun at your relationship with Giyuu. He asked about the "secret looks" Giyuu gave you and teased you about the possessive way the Water Hashira clung to you.

When you finally returned to the Water Estate that evening, the house was dark. Giyuu had not yet returned from his mission. The silence felt heavier now, an empty space that longed for his presence. You climbed into the futon, the scent of cedar still clinging to the sheets, and fell into a fitful sleep.

In the middle of the night, a soft sound woke you. The sliding door opened, and a silhouette stepped into the moonlight. Giyuu.

He stood there for a moment, watching you sleep. A slight, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips—a look of pure, unadulterated devotion. He moved silently, shedding his haori and sliding into the futon beside you.

You stirred, rubbing your tired eyes as you felt the sudden shift in warmth. You looked up and saw him, his eyes dark and filled with a longing that made your breath hitch.

"Giyuu..." you whispered, your voice thick with sleep.

He didn't answer with words. He simply reached out and pulled you against him, burying your face in his chest. His heart was beating a steady, welcoming rhythm.

"It's okay," he murmured, his voice a low vibration against your temple. "I'm here."

The next morning, however, the peace was short-lived. Giyuu had another mission—a follow-up to the first—and he had to leave almost immediately. But before he departed, the atmosphere in the room shifted. The tenderness of the night evolved into a starving, electric tension.

He pinned you against the futon, his body a heavy, burning weight atop yours. His hands found your waist, gripping you with a strength that bordered on bruising.

"I don't want to leave," he groaned, the words muffled against your skin.

He crashed his mouth against yours, and the kiss was not gentle. It was a collision of need. His tongue slid into your mouth, seeking yours in a rhythmic, demanding dance. You could taste the salt of his skin and the peppermint of his breath. The sound of your mouths meeting was wet and sloppy, the exchange of saliva a frantic dialogue of desire.

Giyuu's tongue pushed deeper, swirling against yours, sucking on your lower lip with a greedy intensity. You groaned, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer. He shifted, his thigh sliding between your legs, pressing the hard ridge of his cock through his trousers against your center. The friction was intoxicating, sending jolts of electricity through your core.

He broke the kiss to trail his lips down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. He found a sensitive spot just below your ear and sucked hard, creating a loud, wet squelch as he drew your skin into his mouth. You arched your back, a sharp moan escaping your lips, your toes curling against the sheets.

His hand slid under your uniform, his palm hot and calloused as it cupped your breast. He squeezed, his thumb circling your nipple through the fabric, making you whimper. He tugged the garment down, exposing your breast to the cool morning air and his burning gaze.

Giyuu leaned in, his mouth enveloping your nipple. The sensation was overwhelming—the wet heat of his tongue swirling around the peak, the suction creating a rhythmic pull that made your vision blur. He sucked greedily, the sound of his mouth on your skin a rhythmic shlicking that echoed in the quiet room. You gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, as he alternated between sucking and nipping at the sensitive bud.

He moved back up to your lips, his kiss now more frantic, his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth as if he were trying to consume you whole. He groaned into your mouth, a guttural sound of pure animal need, his body trembling with the effort of not taking you completely right then and there.

When he finally pulled away, he was breathing in short, ragged bursts, his eyes blown wide and dark with lust. He leaned in one last time, pressing a firm, possessive kiss to your lips.

"Wait for me," he whispered.

By the time you arrived at the Kocho estate an hour later, you were a walking disaster. Your face was the color of a ripe tomato, your hair was a wild nest, and your lips were visibly swollen and reddened from Giyuu's intensity.

As you stepped into the ward, Shinobu looked up from her notes. She blinked, her smile widening.

"My goodness," she said, her voice dripping with mock concern. "Did you run into a swarm of bees on your way here? Or perhaps a very aggressive demon?"

You nearly screamed, bringing a hand up to cover your mouth. "What... what happened to my lips?"

"They look quite swollen," Shinobu noted, standing up to examine you. "Are you okay? You look like you've been through a war."

"I'm fine!" you squeaked, though you were vibrating with embarrassment.

As if on cue, the door slid open, and Tengen Uzui stepped in, holding a stack of reports. He stopped dead, his gaze landing on your swollen lips and flushed face. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.

"Well, well, well," Tengen purred, stepping closer. "Look at that. It seems Tomioka isn't as subtle as he thinks. Those are some very flashy lips you've got there. I didn't know the Water Hashira had it in him to be so... thorough."

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. Shinobu simply sighed and excused herself, leaving you alone with the flamboyant Hashira.

Tengen leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "So, tell me. Does he get like that often? Or did he just miss you that much? I bet he was practically clawing at you before he left, wasn't he?"

"I'm not talking about this with you!" you snapped, though there was no real heat in it.

Tengen laughed, the sound booming in the small room. He spent the next few minutes teasing you, his voice a constant stream of flamboyant commentary on your romantic life. As you both began to walk toward the garden, Tengen suddenly slowed his pace.

He looked over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing. He saw a figure standing in the shadow of the estate's outer wall—Giyuu.

Giyuu had returned early from his briefing, and he was watching the two of you. His expression was a mask of cold, simmering jealousy. His eyes were fixed on Tengen, specifically on how close the Sound Hashira was standing to you.

Tengen noticed Giyuu's gaze and a mischievous glint entered his eyes. He decided to push the button.

"You know," Tengen said, leaning in close to you, his voice dropping to a whisper that he knew would carry. "I have a secret. A very flashy secret. Would you like to know it?"

You looked at him, confused. "What secret?"

Tengen didn't wait for a response. He leaned in, his mouth brushing against the shell of your ear, his breath hot against your skin. He whispered something—completely nonsensical, likely just a joke about Giyuu's lack of friends—but the action was calculated. He did it while staring directly at Giyuu, a triumphant, mocking smile on his face.

The air suddenly turned frigid. The atmosphere shifted from playful to predatory in a heartbeat.

"Oh? You're here!" Tengen shouted, straightening up and waving.

You spun around and saw him. Giyuu was walking toward you, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. The coldness in his eyes was staggering, a frozen glare that could have turned the garden to ice. He didn't look at Tengen, his eyes were locked onto you, scanning your face, your lips, and then shifting to Tengen's position.

Giyuu stepped between the two of you, his broad shoulders effectively cutting Tengen out of your line of sight. He was like a wall of muscle and repressed rage.

Tengen started yapping, his voice loud and oblivious. "Ah, Tomioka! I was just telling your Tsuguko about a few flashy techniques! We were having a very productive conversation about—"

"Shut up," Giyuu interrupted, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

He didn't look at Tengen. He reached out, his hand gripping your wrist—not painfully, but with an absolute, unwavering firmness.

"I need my Tsuguko back at the estate," Giyuu commanded. "For practice."

Tengen paused, then let out a loud, booming laugh that echoed through the courtyard. He looked at Giyuu's rigid posture and the possessive grip on your arm.

"Practice, huh?" Tengen chuckled, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Sure, Tomioka. Whatever you say. Go on then, run along to your 'practice.' Just make sure she can still walk tomorrow!"

Giyuu didn't respond. He simply turned and began leading you away, his pace swift and his grip tight. You looked back at Tengen, who was still laughing, and then up at Giyuu's profile. His jaw was set, his eyes still cold, but you could feel the heat radiating from him.

As you crossed the threshold of the Water Estate and the door slammed shut behind you, Giyuu didn't let go. He spun you around, pinning you against the door with a sudden, violent intensity.

"Practice," you whispered, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips.

Giyuu's gaze dropped to your mouth, his eyes darkening.

"Yes," he rasped, his voice thick with possession. "Practice."

The silence that followed was heavier than the rain that often plagued the estate. It wasn't the peaceful silence of their shared mornings; it was a predatory stillness, the kind that preceded a landslide. Giyuu’s gaze remained locked on your lips—those lips that Tengen had mocked, the ones Giyuu had swollen with his own desperation only hours before.

Slowly, deliberately, Giyuu reached for the knot of his haori. He never took his eyes off you. The mismatched fabric slid from his shoulders, pooling on the tatami mats like a discarded skin. Without the garment, the breadth of his shoulders seemed to expand, filling the narrow entryway and leaving you with nowhere to retreat.

"The bed," he commanded.

His voice wasn't a shout. It was a low, velvet rasp, stripped of its usual indifference. It carried the weight of an order that brooked no hesitation.

Your knees trembled. The air in the room felt thick, charged with an electric tension that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. You stepped away from the door, your movements mechanical, and walked toward the futon. Every step felt like a descent into a beautiful, terrifying unknown. You knelt on the soft fabric, your breath hitching as you looked back at him.

Giyuu didn't rush. He walked toward you with a slow, predatory grace, his footsteps silent on the mats. The moonlight filtered through the shoji screens, casting long, jagged shadows across his face, carving his features into something stark and primal.

"Explain yourself," he said.

He stopped inches from you, his presence an overwhelming force. The scent of him—cold mountain air and the faint, metallic tang of a nichirin blade—swirled around you.

"I... I didn't..." you started, your voice cracking. You looked up at him, seeing the storm in his sapphire eyes. "He was just... talking, Giyuu. He was just being flashy. I didn't do anything."

Giyuu leaned down, his hand slamming into the futon beside your head. The impact jolted you. He didn't touch you yet, but the heat radiating from his body felt like a physical brand.

"He was whispering in your ear," Giyuu murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "He was touching you with his breath. You let him."

"I couldn't stop him!" you stammered, your hands clutching the sheets. "You know how Uzui-san is. He does it to provoke you, not me."

"And did it work?"

"What?"

"Did it provoke you?"

He shifted, his thigh sliding between yours, forcing your legs apart. The friction of his uniform against your skin sent a jolt of lightning straight to your core. You gasped, your head falling back against the pillow.

"We... we should be training," you whispered, a desperate attempt to reclaim some semblance of order. "You said... practice."

Giyuu’s lips curved into a ghost of a smirk, though his eyes remained dark with a possessive hunger. He reached down, his calloused fingers gripping your chin and forcing you to look at him.

"We will train," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "Tomorrow. Or perhaps the day after. Right now, there is a different kind of discipline required."

He moved with a suddenness that stole your breath, pushing you flat onto your back. He didn't kiss you—not yet. Instead, he shifted his weight, sliding his trousers down with a fluid motion. When he rose above you again, the sight of him, hard and pulsing in the dim light, made your stomach flip.

He didn't ask. He simply guided your head forward, his hand curling into the hair at the nape of your neck. It wasn't a violent grip, but it was absolute.

"Take it," he commanded.

You obeyed, your heart racing as you leaned in. The first touch of your lips against him was an electric shock. He tasted of salt and heat. As you took him into your mouth, Giyuu let out a long, shuddering groan that vibrated through your entire skull. He remained nonchalant in expression, his face a mask of stoicism, but the way his fingers tightened in your hair betrayed him.

The sounds of the room shifted. The rhythmic, wet slides of your mouth against him filled the silence, a sloppy, desperate dialogue. Giyuu’s hips began to twitch, a subconscious reaction to the suction. He let out a low, guttural sound—not a moan, but a growl of approval. He pushed deeper, his movements becoming more demanding, guiding you to the limit of your endurance.

When he finally pulled away, he was breathing in ragged bursts. He didn't give you time to recover. He shifted, his body sliding over yours, pinning you beneath him.

"You're shaking," he observed, his voice a low vibration.

"I've... I've never..."

Giyuu paused. The realization hit him—the purity of the territory he was about to claim. His expression softened for a fraction of a second, a flicker of the tenderness he usually reserved for the quietest hours of the night. But the image of Tengen’s lips near your ear flashed in his mind, and the softness vanished, replaced by a simmering need to mark you as his.

He slid his hand beneath the hem of your uniform, his palm hot against your thigh. He moved upward, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, making you whimper. When he reached the center of your heat, he found you already drenched, your body betraying your nervousness with a desperate longing.

"So wet for me," he whispered.

He pressed a single finger inside you. You gasped, your back arching off the futon. The sensation was overwhelming—a sharp, invading pressure that felt like it was splitting you open. You were a virgin, and the sudden fullness made your eyes water.

"Giyuu... it hurts," you whimpered.

He froze instantly. He didn't pull out, but he stopped moving. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own.

"Look at me," he commanded softly.

You opened your eyes, seeing the raw intensity in his gaze.

"Breathe," he whispered. "Just breathe with me."

He waited. He stayed perfectly still, allowing your muscles to relax, allowing the initial shock to fade into a dull throb. Once your breathing steadied, he began to move. It wasn't a fast motion; it was a slow, agonizingly deliberate slide. He added a second finger, stretching you, his calloused skin creating a friction that began to turn the pain into a searing, liquid heat.

He began to curl his fingers, seeking the small, sensitive knot of nerves at the entrance. When he found it, he flicked it with a precision that made you scream. The sound was muffled against his shoulder as you clung to him, your nails digging into the muscle of his back.

"Do you like this?" he rasped, his voice thick.

"Yes... please... Giyuu, please..."

"Please what?"

"I don't know! Just... more!"

He didn't need to be told twice. His fingers became a blur of motion, diving deep into you, mimicking the act of penetration. He was relentless, his thumb grinding against your clitoris while his fingers hammered against your walls. You were lost in a storm of sensation, your vision blurring, your breath coming in short, sharp sobs.

Just as you reached the precipice, just as the first wave of a climax began to crash over you, he withdrew.

You let out a cry of frustration and longing, your hips twitching upward, searching for the touch he had stolen.

"Not yet," Giyuu whispered.

He positioned himself between your thighs, the head of his cock brushing against your opening. He entered you with an agonizing slowness. He was careful, his jaw set in a hard line as he felt the resistance of your hymen. He stopped every few inches, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your eyelids, whispering promises of devotion that sounded more like claims of ownership.

When he was finally buried deep within you, you both froze. The fullness was staggering, a pressure that filled every void in your existence. You whimpered, your eyes closing tight.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, though he didn't move. "I'm sorry, my love."

He waited for the ache to subside, his heart hammering against your chest. Then, he began to move. The first few thrusts were shallow, cautious, almost tentative. He watched your face, searching for any sign of genuine pain. But as the friction built, as the natural lubrication of your body eased his passage, your whimpers changed.

The pain dissolved into a heavy, throbbing pleasure. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him to forget the caution.

"Harder," you begged, your voice a broken whisper. "Giyuu, please, harder."

The request snapped the last thread of his restraint. The cautious lover vanished, replaced by the possessive Hashira. He gripped your hips, his fingers bruising your skin, and slammed into you with a sudden, violent intensity.

The sound of their bodies meeting—a wet, rhythmic slapping—filled the room. Giyuu was no longer holding back. He drove into you with a primal hunger, each thrust designed to leave an indelible mark on your soul. He wasn't just taking your body; he was erasing every other presence from your mind, replacing every memory of the day with the sensation of him.

"You are mine," he groaned, the words muffled against your neck. "Only mine. Do you understand?"

"Yes! Yes, I'm yours!"

You were sobbing now, the pleasure too intense to bear. Every time he hit your cervix, a jolt of electricity shot through your spine, making your toes curl and your head thrash against the pillow. Giyuu’s pace became frantic, his breathing a series of guttural grunts. He was lost in you, his eyes blown wide, the sapphire depths turned to a dark, stormy void.

When the climax hit, it was like a supernova. You screamed his name, your internal muscles clamping around him in a series of violent spasms. Giyuu let out a loud, raw roar, his body stiffening as he spilled himself deep inside you, filling you with a warmth that felt like a seal of ownership.

He collapsed onto you, his weight heavy and comforting. For a long time, the only sound was the synchronized thrumming of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again. You felt drained, your limbs like lead, your eyes fluttering shut as a deep, heavy exhaustion washed over you.

You were drifting, slipping into a dreamless sleep, when you felt something.

A sudden, wet warmth between your thighs.

Your eyes snapped open. Giyuu had shifted. He was kneeling between your legs, his head lowered. The sensation was electric—the flick of a tongue, the suction of lips. He was eating you, his tongue swirling around your clitoris with a hunger that seemed impossible after such a bout of exertion.

"Giyuu... no," you moaned, your voice weak. "I'm... I'm too tired... please..."

He didn't stop. In fact, he became more aggressive. He gripped your thighs, manhandling them wider, pinning them against the futon so you couldn't escape. He drank from you, his tongue probing deep into your folds, tasting the mixture of his own seed and your arousal.

"I can't stop," he muttered against your skin, his voice distorted. "I can still see him on you. I have to get rid of it."

The sheer possessiveness of the statement sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, despite your fatigue. You arched your back, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer even as you begged him to stop. He ignored your pleas, his tongue working with a rhythmic, relentless intensity that pushed you toward another peak.

Just as you began to tremble, he pulled away. He didn't give you a second to breathe before he rose over you again. He was hard once more, his eyes flashing with an unquenchable fire.

"Again," he commanded.

He slammed into you, the impact jarring your entire frame. This second round was different—it was rougher, faster, devoid of the tenderness from before. He treated you like a conquest, his movements jagged and demanding.

You were no longer the virgin he had carefully navigated, you were his partner, his Tsuguko, his obsession. He fucked the breath out of you, his body a piston of muscle and heat. You could only moan, your voice reduced to a series of broken whimpers as he drove you further and further into the mattress.

The world narrowed down to the point of contact—the wet, sliding friction and the sound of his ragged breath in your ear.

When he finally finished for the second time, he didn't immediately pull away. He stayed inside you, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. But as he began to withdraw, he didn't stop there.

He slid two fingers back into you.

You let out a sharp, startled cry, your body shaking. You were overstimulated, your nerves raw and screaming.

"Giyuu, stop... please, it's too much," you begged, your voice trembling.

He didn't stop. He began to finger you again, but this time, he was searching for something. He pushed deep, his fingers stretching you, twisting slightly. You were sobbing, your head shaking from side to side, your body vibrating with a mixture of pleasure and exhaustion.

"Look at me," he whispered.

You opened your eyes, seeing the absolute devotion and madness in his gaze.

"You're shaking," he noted, his voice almost tender, yet his fingers remained relentless. "You're so sensitive now."

He increased the speed, his fingers blurring. You were on the edge, a thin line between ecstasy and agony. You begged him to stop, your voice a frantic whisper, but the more you begged, the more he pushed. He wanted you broken, wanted you completely undone, wanted you to know that there was no part of you that didn't belong to him.

As you finally shattered, your body convulsing in a powerful, toe-curling orgasm, Giyuu didn't let the moment fade. At the very peak of your release, he replaced his fingers with his cock.

He slammed into you one last time, the transition so seamless and sudden that it felt like a physical explosion. You screamed, a long, loud sound that echoed through the empty estate, your body clamping around him in a final, desperate grip.

Giyuu groaned, his voice a guttural sound of victory. He hammered into you a few more times, his movements frantic, before he finally collapsed against you, his seed flooding you for the third time.

The silence returned to the Water Estate, but it was no longer hollow. It was full—filled with the scent of sex, the sound of labored breathing, and the heavy, oppressive weight of a love that bordered on obsession.

Giyuu rolled to the side, pulling you flush against his chest. He wrapped his arm around you, his grip still possessive, even in his exhaustion. He kissed the top of your head, his lips lingering on your skin.

"Tomorrow," he whispered, his voice finally returning to its usual quietude, though a hint of the predator remained. "We will train."

You didn't answer. You couldn't. You simply closed your eyes, drifting off to sleep in the arms of the man who had claimed every inch of you, knowing that you would never be alone in the silence again.

The first light of dawn filtered through the thin shoji screens, casting a pale, milky glow across the tatami mats of the Water Estate. It was a cold light, one that clung to the corners of the room and highlighted the dust motes dancing in the stagnant air. Giyuu lay motionless, his arm draped heavily across your waist, pinning you to the futon. He had been awake for an hour.

He did not move, fearing that any sudden shift would break the spell of the moment. His sapphire eyes, usually as flat and impenetrable as a frozen lake, were wide and focused. He watched the rhythmic rise and fall of your shoulders, the way your breath hitched in the deep currents of sleep. He felt a tightening in his chest, a pressure that had nothing to do with the restrictive training of the Breath of Water and everything to do with the woman trembling slightly in his hold.

His gaze drifted lower, tracing the map of his own desperation written across your skin. Deep, plum-colored bruises blossomed across the curve of your shoulder and the column of your throat. He had been relentless. The memory of your screams, the way your nails had carved crescent moons into his back, and the guttural roar he had let out when he finally claimed you, pulsed in his mind like a second heartbeat. He remembered the smell of you—salt, sweat, and the metallic tang of arousal—and the way your body had clamped around him, desperate and undone.

You shifted, a soft moan escaping your lips as you began to surface from the depths of exhaustion. Your eyelids fluttered, the long lashes casting jagged shadows on your cheeks. When your eyes finally opened, they were hazy, unfocused, and brimming with a vulnerability that made Giyuu’s grip tighten instinctively.

"Giyuu," you whispered, your voice a raspy ghost of itself.

He didn't answer immediately. He simply watched you, his expression a mask of stoicism, though his pupils were blown wide. He leaned in, his nose brushing against your temple. He inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of his own seed still clinging to your skin, mixed with the natural sweetness of your warmth.

"You're awake," he said.

The words were short, clipped, but they carried a weight of possessiveness that made your stomach flip. You tried to sit up, but a sharp jolt of soreness shot through your hips, making you gasp and sink back into the pillow.

Giyuu’s eyes darkened. He shifted his weight, sliding his hand down to the junction of your thighs. He felt the dampness there, the sticky residue of their third encounter. He let out a low, humming sound in his throat, a vibration that you felt deep in your marrow.

"It hurts," you murmured, though there was no real complaint in your voice.

"It will fade," he replied.

He didn't move his hand. Instead, he began to trace the edge of your heat, his fingers grazing the swollen folds of your pussy. You arched your back, a small, broken sound escaping you. The sensitivity was staggering, every touch felt like a lightning strike.

"Giyuu, please," you breathed, not sure if you were asking him to stop or to continue.

He knew. He always knew. He slid his hand further, his fingers dipping into the slick, warm channel he had spent the previous night expanding. He felt the way your internal muscles leaped to greet him, the desperate, rhythmic pulsing of your walls. He didn't use a finger; he shifted his body, his leg sliding between yours to force them wide.

He was already hard. The sight of him, thick and pulsing against your thigh, sent a surge of heat straight to your core. He didn't ask for permission. He didn't whisper sweet nothings. He simply gripped your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and pushed.

The entry was a wet, squelching sound that filled the quiet room. You screamed into the crook of his neck, your body shaking as he filled you once more. Because you were already stretched, the friction was different—more intense, more raw. Every slide of his cock against your walls felt like it was scraping against your very soul.

"Look at me," he commanded.

You opened your eyes, seeing the raw, predatory hunger in his gaze. He began to move, his thrusts slow and agonizingly deep. He wanted you to feel every ridge, every pulse of his vein against your cervix. The sound of their bodies meeting—the slapping of skin on skin, the wet shlicking of lubricant and seed—echoed through the hollow halls of the estate.

"You're so tight," he groaned, his voice a low, guttural rasp. "Even after everything, you still grip me like you're afraid I'll leave."

"I am," you sobbed, your fingers clawing at his shoulders. "Don't... don't stop."

He accelerated. The rhythm became frantic, a desperate collision of flesh and need. He hammered into you, his balls slapping against your perineum with a rhythmic thud. He wasn't gentle, he treated you like a conquest, his movements jagged and demanding. He watched your face, the way your eyes rolled back and your mouth hung open in a silent plea for release.

He reached down, his thumb finding your clitoris, grinding against the engorged nub with a precision that made you shatter. You let out a long, piercing cry, your internal muscles clamping around him in a series of violent spasms. Giyuu let out a raw roar, his body stiffening as he spilled himself deep inside you for the fourth time, the warmth of his release flooding your womb.

He collapsed on top of you, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. For a long time, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the synchronized thrumming of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again.

Eventually, Giyuu withdrew. The sound of him sliding out of you was a wet, suctioning pop that left you feeling suddenly cold and empty. He rolled to the side, his eyes returning to their usual calm, though the possessive glint remained.

He stood up, his movements fluid and silent. He didn't look back as he walked across the room, his naked form a testament to the grueling training of a Hashira—lean muscle, scarred skin, and an aura of absolute authority. You watched him, your limbs feeling like lead, your mind floating in a haze of afterglow.

Giyuu reached for a lacquer chest in the corner of the room. He retrieved two bundles of fabric, carefully folded and smelling of fresh dye and cedar. He walked back to the futon and knelt beside you.

He held out a haori. It wasn't the mismatched pattern he wore, nor was it the dull colors of the standard corps attire. It was a deep, vibrant red—the color of a setting sun, the color of fresh blood, the color of a passion that burned too hot to be contained.

"Your haori," he said.

You stared at the fabric, your breath catching.

"And this," he added, handing you a new demon slayer uniform. It was tailored perfectly to your measurements, the black fabric crisp and smelling of newness.

You reached out, your fingers trembling as you touched the red silk. You looked up at him, a small, genuine smile breaking through your exhaustion.

"Thank you, Giyuu. It's beautiful."

He didn't smile back, but the tension in his jaw relaxed. He reached out, his calloused thumb brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead.

"It suits you," he murmured. "The red. It marks you."

You knew what he meant. He didn't want you to blend into the background. He wanted the world to see you, and he wanted them to know exactly who you belonged to.

"I have to get dressed," you whispered. "We're supposed to train today."

Giyuu’s expression shifted. A ghost of a smirk touched his lips, though his eyes remained dark.

"We will train," he said. "But not yet. You can barely stand."

"I can stand," you protested, attempting to push yourself up.

A sharp wince crossed your face as your sore muscles protested. Giyuu caught you by the waist, pulling you back down with a sudden, firm motion.

"You cannot," he corrected. "Rest. I will bring you tea."

He left the room, his footsteps fading into the distance. You lay there for a moment, clutching the red haori to your chest. The fabric felt warm, almost as if it held the heat of his touch. You felt a sense of belonging that you had never known before—a terrifying, consuming kind of love that stripped you bare and rebuilt you in his image.

By the time Giyuu returned with a tray of steaming tea and simple rice cakes, you had managed to dress. The uniform fit like a second skin, and the red haori draped over your shoulders like a royal mantle. You felt a surge of confidence as you looked at your reflection in the small mirror by the door. The hickeys were still there, stark and vivid against your pale skin, but you didn't try to hide them. They were his marks.

As you stepped out onto the engawa, the morning air hit you with a refreshing chill. The Water Estate was quiet, the only sound the distant trickle of a bamboo water fountain. But the silence was broken as a loud, abrasive voice echoed from the front gates.

"Tomioka! You lazy bastard! I know you're in there!"

You stiffened. You recognized that voice. Sanemi Shinazugawa, the Wind Hashira, was not known for his patience or his subtlety.

Giyuu didn't flinch. He stood beside you, his presence a grounding force. He didn't say a word as Sanemi stormed into the courtyard, his white haori fluttering behind him like a storm cloud. Sanemi’s eyes were wide and manic, his face a map of scars and aggression.

He stopped dead when he saw you. His gaze traveled from your face, down to the vibrant red haori, and then lingered on the dark bruises marking your neck.

Sanemi’s eyebrows shot up. He looked at Giyuu, then back at you, his expression shifting from irritation to genuine confusion.

"What the hell is this?" Sanemi barked, pointing a scarred finger at your haori. "Since when do you give out fancy clothes, Tomioka? And what happened to her neck? Did a demon get a hold of her while you were napping?"

Giyuu’s expression remained flat. He stepped slightly in front of you, a subtle movement that signaled a boundary.

"She is my Tsuguko," Giyuu replied, his voice devoid of emotion. "And she is under my protection."

Sanemi let out a harsh, barking laugh. He stepped closer, his aura radiating a violent energy that made the air vibrate.

"Protection? Is that what you call it? She looks like she's been chewed up and spit out," Sanemi sneered. He looked at you, his eyes narrowing. "Hey, girl. You alright? Or has the Water Hashira finally lost his mind and started treating his students like chew toys?"

You felt a flush of heat creep up your neck. You looked at Giyuu, seeing the way his jaw tightened.

"I am fine, Shinazugawa-san," you replied, your voice steady. "The haori was a gift. I appreciate it."

Sanemi scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked at Giyuu with a mixture of disdain and a strange, begrudging curiosity.

"A gift, huh? You're getting soft, Tomioka. I never thought I'd see the day you actually cared enough about someone to buy them a piece of cloth. What's next? A poem? A bouquet of flowers?"

Giyuu didn't take the bait. He didn't even blink.

"The training session is scheduled for noon," Giyuu said, effectively ending the conversation. "You are early."

"I'm not early, you're just slow!" Sanemi yelled, though the edge of his anger seemed to have dulled into a sort of bewildered annoyance. He glanced at you one last time, his eyes lingering on the red fabric. "Red, huh? Flashy. Uzui would probably love it. Just don't let that color get too stained with blood, kid. It's a pain to wash out."

With a final, disgruntled huff, Sanemi turned on his heel and marched toward the training grounds, his footsteps heavy and deliberate.

As he disappeared from view, the silence returned to the estate. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

"He's... intense," you whispered.

"He is a storm," Giyuu replied. "Storms are loud, but they eventually pass."

You looked up at him, noticing the way the sunlight caught the blue of his eyes. For the first time, you saw a flicker of something other than stoicism. There was a quiet pride there, a satisfaction in the way Sanemi had reacted to your appearance.

"Do you like that he noticed?" you asked.

Giyuu looked away, but not before you saw the slight curve of his lips.

"I like that he knows," he murmured.

He reached out, his hand sliding around the back of your neck, his fingers grazing the hickeys he had left. He pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours.

You closed your eyes, leaning into his warmth. The soreness in your body was still there, a lingering reminder of the night's intensity, but it no longer felt like pain. It felt like a map—a guide leading you back to the only person who truly saw you.

The morning continued in a slow, languid rhythm. Giyuu led you back inside, insisting that you eat a full breakfast before any thought of training entered your mind. He moved with a quiet efficiency, preparing a meal of grilled salmon and miso soup. You watched him, admiring the way he navigated the kitchen, his movements precise and controlled.

As you ate, the conversation remained sparse, but the silence was no longer heavy. It was a shared space, a sanctuary they had built out of broken pieces and desperate needs.

"Finish your meal. Sanemi will not be patient for long, and if you perform poorly in training, he will never let me hear the end of it."

You laughed, a bright, clear sound that seemed to light up the dim room.

"Are you worried about your reputation, Giyuu?"

He stood up, clearing the plates with a swift motion. He stopped beside you, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to your temple.

"My reputation is irrelevant," he whispered. "Only your progress matters."

The walk to the training grounds was a slow process. Your legs still felt like jelly, and every step was a reminder of the way Giyuu had claimed you. But as you walked, you felt a strange sense of power. You weren't just a student, you weren't just a Tsuguko. You were the center of Giyuu Tomioka's world, the only person allowed behind the wall of ice.

When you arrived at the training field, Sanemi was already there, swinging his sword in a blur of violent motion. Each strike created a miniature whirlwind, the air whistling with the force of his attacks. He stopped the moment he saw you, his eyes immediately darting to the red haori.

"Finally! I thought you'd decided to take a nap in the middle of the courtyard!" Sanemi yelled.

Giyuu stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his nichirin blade.

"Begin the sparring," Giyuu commanded.

The training was brutal. Sanemi did not hold back, his attacks fast and unpredictable. He pushed you to your limits, forcing you to dodge and weave through the chaos of his Wind Breathing. You struggled at first, your body still recovering from the night's exertion, but the red haori seemed to lend you a strength you didn't know you possessed.

Every time you stumbled, you felt Giyuu's gaze on you. He didn't offer words of encouragement, he didn't shout instructions. He simply watched, his presence a silent anchor in the storm.

At one point, Sanemi lunged forward, his blade a streak of silver. You reacted instinctively, sliding beneath his guard and delivering a sharp strike to his ribs. The impact wasn't enough to injure him, but it was enough to surprise him.

Sanemi leaped back, a wide, manic grin spreading across his face.

"Not bad, kid! You've actually got some bite to you! Maybe Tomioka hasn't spent all his time keeping you in bed!"

You flushed crimson, the color matching your haori. You glanced at Giyuu, who remained expressionless, though you noticed the way his fingers tightened on his sword.

"Focus, Sanemi," Giyuu said coldly. "Your footwork is sloppy."

"My footwork is fine, you arrogant prick!" Sanemi roared, launching himself at Giyuu.

The two Hashira collided in a clash of steel and elements. The courtyard became a battlefield of crashing waves and howling winds. The sound of their blades meeting was like thunder, the shockwaves rippling through the air and kicking up clouds of dust.

You stood back, watching them. You saw the way Giyuu moved—fluid, effortless, and precise. He was the ocean, absorbing Sanemi's aggression and redirecting it with a lethal grace. But there was a difference in Giyuu's fighting style today. He was more aggressive, more decisive. He fought with a renewed sense of purpose, as if he were proving something.

As the spar ended, both men were breathing hard, their uniforms dampened with sweat. Sanemi let out a loud, booming laugh, sheathing his sword with a sharp click.

"Fine! You win this round, Tomioka! But don't think I'm going easy on the girl next time!"

He turned to you and gave a mock salute.

"Keep wearing that red, kid. It makes it easier to see where you're failing!"

With that, Sanemi stormed off, leaving a trail of dust in his wake.

Giyuu walked toward you, his chest heaving. He stopped inches away, the scent of ozone and salt clinging to him. He didn't say anything at first; he simply reached out and adjusted the collar of your haori, his fingers lingering on the skin of your neck.

"You did well," he said.

"I felt like I was dying for a few minutes there," you admitted, leaning into him.

"That is how you grow," he replied.

He wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you flush against his side. As you walked back toward the Water Estate, the sun high in the sky, you felt a profound sense of peace.

The world outside the estate was filled with demons, blood, and the constant threat of death. The Corps was a place of sacrifice and sorrow. But within the walls of the Water Estate, in the quiet moments between the storms, there was something else.

There was a love that was as deep and crushing as the ocean, a passion that burned like a red flame, and a devotion that defied the silence of the world.

As you entered the house, Giyuu stopped you in the hallway. He turned you around, pinning you against the wooden wall. His eyes were dark again, the predatory hunger returning.

"The training is over," he whispered, his voice a low vibration.

"Is it?" you asked, a playful smile touching your lips.

"For the day," he murmured, his hand sliding down to the hem of your uniform. "But I believe we have some unfinished business from this morning."

a/n: first post on this account ><

[b-blueberry-fields-s]

Never the right time

Synopsis: Five times Giyuu asked you to marry him and the one time you said yes

Notes: fluff, friends to lovers, female reader, reader is the leaf pillar, maybe ooc Giyuu, slight smut, angst with happy ending, tiny manga spoilers at the end but seeing as I haven't read the manga myself (have only seen spoilers) I tried to keep it vague

First time: You were kids when he asked the first time. Giyuu, Sabito, and you trained under Master Urokodaki every day and night until your hands grew callouses and the mountain was no longer your enemy.

The first time Giyuu asked you to marry him was late one night after he accidentally hit you in the face with a training sword.

You had been dueling, something you'd done together hundreds if not thousands of times. Your bodies moved in clumsy familiarity. Dodge, kick, swing, dodge again. However, when you moved back to try and avoid Giyuu's sword you slipped which resulted in him hitting you on the cheek with enough force to send you across the training field and into a bush nearby.

He cried out your name and rushed over to you. "Are you alright?" he asked and held out a hand. "Give me your hand!"

When he moved a leafy branch to the side, he was surprised to find you laughing. You held your stomach as you rolled in the bush with tears sliding down your round cheeks.

He called your name again, still concerned. You took his hand and with all your strength pulled him into the bush next to you. Your laughter continued at the look of betrayal on his face.

"You... you!" he pointed a finger at you and shoved you, as much as he could from your positions in the bush. "I thought you were hurt!"

Your laughter calmed and you looked up at him with bright eyes. "The look on your face was priceless!"

He scoffed and pulled his body out of the bush. He swatted at the twigs that grabbed his red haori and held his hand out to you again. "Come on, it's getting late."

You took his hand and this time you allowed him to pull you from the bush. Sticks and leaves covered you both, tangled in your hair and clinging to your sleeves and pants.

You giggled. "You have a thousand leaves in your hair." Without hesitation, you reached up and started gently pulled leaves out of his thick black hair. You used both hands to pull at the leaves that were buried deeper into his wild hair, tongue sticking out.

Giyuu watched you, eyes wide and unblinking, a dust of pink on his cheeks. He could smell the sweat on your skin but also something sweeter, something that screamed you.

You smiled. "Aha! I think I got all of them," you showed him the last leaf you pulled from his hair.

Your cheek began to swell. You acted like it didn't hurt even though he knew it did, but you didn't show it. Instead, you smiled at him.

He didn't mean to blurt it out.

"Marry me."

You froze and your smile left you face. The leaf that you held slipped from your fingers and fell at your feet.

His face burned as the sweet pink that covered his cheeks turned into a harsh red that matched his haori.

"I... uhh..." he couldn't think of anything to say and looked down at his feet in shame.

He honestly expected you to slap him and tell Urokodaki what he said. Surely, he's offended you or weirded you out.

You and Sabito were his only friends, but you were both the best he could ask for. You three were a team. You worked hard and pushed each other to be better every day. The laughs you've shared, the secrets you've spilled, even the fights you've had, it meant everything to Giyuu. And he didn't want it to come to an end.

His thoughts were interrupted by your soft touch. Your hands rose to each side of his face, cupping his cheeks to force him to look at you.

Your smile had returned. Your kind eyes crinkled as you beamed at him.

"We're a little young, don't you think?" you jested.

Giyuu gave you a small smile, eyes not quite looking into yours. "I didn't mean to say that..."

You hummed and with a sudden rush of courage, you placed a quick peck to his cheek before pulling away from him.

"Ask me again in a few years, yeah?"

You walked back inside after that, but he didn't follow.

Giyuu stood frozen where you left him. His blue eyes wide as he starred at the bush you pulled him into. Slowly, he rose a hand to his cheek, the one you kissed, and found himself enjoying the tingles it sent throughout his body.

"Ask me again in a few years, yeah?"

Second Time: It'd been a few years since that moment.

Well after you both passed Final Selection.

Well after you both said goodbye to Sabito.

Since his death, Giyuu's spark in his eyes disappeared and he was more standoffish, quieter, than before.

You understood. Of course you did. You liked to think you still had a spark in your eyes, but you knew it wasn't the same. Not without your friend.

You and Giyuu made it a point to stick together. You needed each other, though neither of you said it out loud.

Things between you two didn't change for a long time, up until recently. You trained like you had always done, but you had noticed a difference lately. Giyuu's physical strength beat yours tenfold, and while you always saw him as your equal, it frustrated you that he was growing stronger while it felt like you suddenly weren't getting anywhere.

No matter how hard you tried, you weren't getting stronger. Not like he was.

No matter how much your trained.

No matter how many nights you stayed up to work-out and build your muscle.

You still felt like you were falling behind.

It frustrated you to all hell.

You and Giyuu had been dueling all morning. Bamboo swords in your hands as you circled each other in the ring. Your eyes scanned his body frantically, looking for an opening, but Giyuu remained calm. A book you suddenly could not read.

You both moved, swords clashing again. Splinters flew through the air, a gush of wind blew your hair back by the sudden force.

You block but your arms ached from the pressure as Giyuu pressed into you, clearly having the advantage. Your knees bent and heels dug into the dirt beneath your feet, but Giyuu continued to push.

Your faces were inches apart, if you stood taller, you were certain your noses would brush.

Before you knew it, Giyuu slipped out of your position and twirled around you, bamboo sword against your neck. He stood behind you now, tall. "I win."

Your knees were still bent, your sword was still held up in a block position, and your mood had officially soured.

You slapped his bamboo sword away from your neck and threw yours on the ground. You allowed your knees to give out, to rest in the dirt, with small rocks digging into your flesh. Your breathing was heavy, and your arms felt like they could melt right off your body.

Giyuu stepped around you and held out a hand to help you up, like he always did, but this time instead of taking it, you slapped in away and glared at the ground.

Giyuu, unfazed by your actions, sighed. "You locked up again. You need to be looser or else your enemy will be able to get behind you."

You gritted your teeth. "I know," you replied with a locked jaw.

"If you knew then why didn't you do it?"

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath to try and zone him out, but unluckily for you, Giyuu was feeling chatty.

"You need to focus," he said your name, stern. "You've been distracted."

That catches your attention. So, he's noticed. Of course he would. Giyuu knew you better than anyone. He could pick you out of a crowd blindfolded. But if there was one thing about Giyuu that always drove you crazy is the fact that he was never one to ask you if something was wrong. He would point it out in a blunt, ungentle way that almost seemed harsh or like he was making fun of you. But he always noticed when something was wrong even if he didn't come out right and ask.

He was silent and you looked up at him, a glare still on your face.

"It's nothing," you wiped your palms on your thighs and stood on wobbly legs. Giyuu reached out for you again, but you stopped him. "I'm fine."

You walked over to your pile of items. His haori, your bag, and of course both of your swords.

You opened your bag and pretended to look for something specific to try and distract your mind.

You couldn't even get him to break a sweat anymore. He didn't even look tired, but you were exhausted. Your legs still felt wobbly, and your arms felt heavier than ever. You were still panting and when you noticed you tried to breathe through your nose to hide it.

Tears pricked your eyes and you blinked harshly as your vision grew blurry.

You knew Giyuu was watching, it felt like he always was, and while you usually ignore his gaze or do something cheeky like strike a pose or blow him a kiss to get a rise out of him, today it was just too much.

You felt weak. And today just solidified a fact that you had been trying to ignore for weeks; you were falling behind. Your promise to stick together was disintegrating right in front of your eyes and you couldn't do anything to stop it.

You both were on the road of becoming Hashira, but you knew Giyuu was going to become the Water Hashira in the end, even if he didn't think he deserved it.

And you were going to be left behind while he goes off to who knows where, meet tons of new people, all without you.

You gave up on trying to keep your tears at bay and allowed them to drip down your cheeks and onto your hands. Your fingers gripped your bag, knuckles white.

You felt him before you saw him.

Giyuu stood next to you, looked down at your bag, eyebrows pinched together. He reached for your bag, but you jerked your hands away.

"Don't. Please," you choked out. "I'm not in the mood." You threw your bag over your shoulder, grabbed your sword, not bothering to attach it to your belt, before you started to walk away from him.

Giyuu called your name after you, asked you to wait, but you continued to march through the trees and brush.

You had been training in a clearing in the forest, where the sun was mostly hidden by the thick leaves above. You picked it out, wanting to get away from the glaring sun while you trained, hoping you could blame your loses on the heat, but it wasn't the heat that caused you to lose to him once again.

Giyuu caught up to you and grabbed your bicep, stopping you in your place. "Stop walking away from me."

"Let go of me."

"Not until you talk to me," Giyuu urged.

"I don't want to talk to you right now, Giyuu, let go." You tugged on your arm to try and pull yourself out of his grasp but he only held on tighter. And that only pissed you off more.

You threw your stuff on the ground and whipped around to face him. "You wanna know what my problem is, is that right? You want to know why I'm so distracted and being such a big crybaby, right?" you poked him in the chest. "Because of you."

"Me?" Giyuu's eyes hardened. "I didn't do anything."

"Yes, you did. You had to have!"

"I don't understand."

"You had to have done something! Trained while I was sleeping or maybe you found a special flower that makes you stronger or something..." you bit your lip. You realized how crazy you sounded, but there was no backing down now. "Because if you didn't do anything... then that means I was right." You looked down at your feet, a fresh wave of tears rushed down your cheeks and neck.

"Right about what?" his grip on your arm loosened, but he didn't let go. Instead, Giyuu put both of his hands on your shoulders and shook you ever so slightly to try and urge you to continue.

Your lip quivered and you tucked your chin further into your chest. "That I'm falling behind," you whispered.

Giyuu was quiet, not surprising to you, but as his silence encouraged you to dig yourself into a deeper hole. "You agree, don't you?" you chuckled under your breath. "I'm too weak to be a slayer."

"Stop." Giyuu's voice was stern, almost angry. "You don't get to stand here and assume you know how I feel." His grip on your shoulders tightened. "You're not falling behind. I never thought you were."

You scoffed. "Yeah right," you said and looked up at him. "There's no way you haven't noticed that I haven't been able to keep up with you recently. I haven't won a fight in ages and before we know it, you're going to be a Hashira and I'm going to be stuck as a Kinoe or something." You wiped your cheeks and under your nose with your sleeves. "All I want is to stay by your side. Be your equal."

You looked at Giyuu and watched him take in your words. His eyes flickered between yours as he thought about what to say.

Your eyes were puffy and your nose was red. Your sniffles continued as you wiped your face on your sleeve.

"Marry me then," he spoke softly.

You flinched back at his words. "What?"

"Marry me, then we can always be at each other's sides."

You rolled your eyes and wiped your face again. "You really need to work on your timing."

He groaned your name, his ears turning pink. "Look, I can't promise that we'll always be at each other's sides, that we'll always be the same rank, but I can promise that I'm not going anywhere."

You felt your chest grow lighter and a small smile crept up on your face. "You promise, huh? You don't give those out a lot."

He sighed. "I don't want to see you cry anymore."

You hummed. "You could've just said that instead of proposing, you know?"

Giyuu rolled his eyes at your teasing and let go of your shoulders. He walked around you and picked up your stuff. He turned back towards the clearing with your bag thrown over his shoulder and your sword in his hand.

You watched his back as he walked away. A small gust of wind swam through the sea of tree which caused his hair to sway to the side.

He looked over his shoulder and asked if you were coming. You couldn't stop the blush that graced your face as you took him in for what felt like the first time.

Since when was Giyyu so... handsome?

Giyuu stopped in his tracks, his eyes softened the longer he looked back at you. His bangs blew in the wind, showing you more of his handsome face to you.

You gulped and wiped your face once more.

"I'm coming!"

Third Time: With years of hard work, literal blood, sweat, and tears, and a change in breathing style for you, both you and Giyuu were Hashira.

Giyuu the Water Pillar.

You the Leaf Pillar.

It took a while, but you and Giyuu realized that the reason why you were falling behind was because water breathing wasn't your calling. Leaf breathing suited you far before and it finally felt like you two were equals again.

Giyuu had become a Hashira before you did, and ever since he was given the title, he didn't talk to you as much as he used to.

At first, you chalked it up to him being busy. Being a Hashira held many responsibilities, being one of the strongest of the corps would of course lead to him being away for missions almost daily.

But you had hoped he'd at least write.

You sent letters whenever you had the time. You updated your longtime friend of anything you could think of. Missions you went on, who you met, what you ate, anything.

But you rarely heard anything back. After a while, you figured the only reason he wrote you back was to let you know he was still alive.

The lifespan of a slayer is always a question. Will you grow old enough to retire, to settle down, like Master Urokodaki, or will you perish a week from now? It's always a risk but knowing that you had Giyuu always made the job easier. Made it worth trying to live your life to the fullest.

Now you were left with crumbs of his attention, of his friendship. And after you told him you were now a Hashira, he didn't write you back. He didn't try to see you. Nothing.

Today was your first time meeting the other Hashira. You'd seen some of them in passing, even had lunch with Mitsuri when you accompanied her on a mission almost two months ago, but this was the first time you'd have a real introduction to all of them.

When you were officially ranked 'Hashira,' the master sent you to go to the tailor to get a new uniform made. Yours had been old, covered in stitches you had done yourself because you didn't want to bother the kakushi. But to be honest, you weren't the best at sewing.

So, you bowed and thanked him once again for the opportunity before you made your way to the tailor.

But oh, do you wish someone would've warned you about him.

Madea.

The perverted kakushi who had somehow convinced you that this was the official uniform you needed to wear. You've been a slayer for years and had always worn long skirts and tops that were made to button all the way up to your neck, but Madea told you that this is what the female Hashira wore.

You didn't believe him at first, but then your mind jumped to the Love Hashira, the only Hashira you had met other than Giyuu. Mitsuri was incredibly kind, high spirited, and a fantastic leader. You admired her strength and skills as a slayer and as silly as it sounded, you hoped to be just like her someday.

And so, with her in mind, you put on the 'uniform' and followed your crow to the Butterfly mansion where you would get to officially meet the other Hashira for the first time.

As you approached the courtyard, you could hear sounds of talking and laughter and tugged at your uniform. Again.

Every step you took, you held down your skirt, afraid even the small gust of wind would expose you to the entire world. And when you didn't have a hold on your skirt, your hand covered the opening in your shirt in a weak attempt to hide your cleavage as much as you could. The lack of chest bindings was already uncomfortable to you, but feeling the breeze on your chest was an all-new experience. You didn't have a haori to provide you cover but made a mental note to get one after this.

Finally, you saw the other Hashira, all gathered on the front porch of the Butterfly Mansion. Some sat on the porch talking while others stood around in their own small groups or by themselves.

You hid behind a tree, spying on them for a moment. They all looked so intimating.

Then your eyes caught a familiar red and checkered haori. You saw Giyuu, standing by himself, eyes pointed at the ground and his arms crossed. Your breath got caught in your throat at the sight of him. It's been months since you'd last seen his raven black hair and deep blue eyes. He looked good. Still the skinny kid you grew up with, but it was obvious he had put on some muscle. His shoulders were widener and his thighs filled out his pants better.

You swallowed and tore your eyes away from him.

You took another deep breath to calm the rest of your nerves, tugged the skirt down one more time, and pulled at the opening at your chest before you walked out from behind the tree and towards the group.

Mitsuri was the first one to see you. She squealed and waved frantically. She called your name. "You made it!"

Your pace slowed as all the Hashira turned and looked at you, curious. Your eyes bounced between all of them and gulped.

"Hi," you greeted with a wave. You introduced yourself and bowed. You felt the breeze between your breasts and raised a hand to cover them before you stood back up. "It's nice to finally meet you all."

Sweat gathered on your temple and the back of your neck. All their eyes were locked onto you. They scanned you, analyzed you, took in the new girl for the first time.

That was when the man with yellow and red hair smiled at you. "Welcome! Please, join us!" he waved you over with such enthusiasm that you almost worried he was too eager to talk to you. But his smile was kind, and his eyes were respectful, locked onto your face.

You walked over to him and fought the urge to tug at your skirt.

"I am Rengoku Kyojuro! The Flame Pillar!" He held out a hand for you to shake. "Pleasure to meet you!"

You took his hand and your whole body shook as he shook your hand. You covered your chest to keep the girls at bay and smiled at him. "Pleasure is all mine!"

He laughed, overly joyous.

Mitsuri came over and pulled you into a quick hug. You tried to ignore how your exposed skin touched hers, but a blush covered your cheeks anyway.

She pulled away and took your hands in hers. "It's going to be so much fun having another girl around! I'm so excited!"

You chuckled at her and allowed your hands to drop.

A large arm was thrown over your shoulders from behind. You jumped when the gold band on his arm touched your neck. It was cold and caused you to shiver.

"My my, look what the cat dragged in," he said as he leaned down close to your ear. "Names Uzui Tengen. God of Festivals, the king of flashiness." He removed his arm and stood in front of you. He took your hand and brought a kiss to your knuckle.

"Uhh, nice to meet you," you stammered out, nervous from his attention. He was quite handsome.

"Pleasure is all mine," he winked before he let go of your hand.

You took a step back out of nerves and looked down at your feet and caught a glimpse of your breasts as you did. You covered your chest again and tried not to make it obvious by tugging at a button. You could feel the others eyes on you, and you were too afraid to look up, worried they were looking at your exposed body just as much as you were.

You swallowed and continued to fiddle with the button. Mitsuri seemed so comfortable in her uniform, not worried about her exposed skin as she bounced around and waved at the Hashira with the stripped haori and snake on his shoulder.

The small breeze that flowed through the courtyard picked up and so did your nerves. Your hands moved down to your skirt just in time to cover yourself resulting in your chest being on display again. Your hands awkwardly moved across your body, and you wished for the ground to swallow you where you stood before you expose yourself to your comrades.

That was when a figure stood in front of you, shielding you from the eyes of your comrades.

You looked up to see Giyuu. Your eyes were level with his chin, inches apart. You hadn't even seen him approach.

"Giyuu," you whispered.

"Why are you wearing that?" he asked you quietly, eyes locked onto the top of your head.

"This is what the Kakushi gave me. Said the other female Hashira were wearing it."

"Oh yeah? Then why isn't Kocho wearing it?"

You looked off to the side and found the Insect Hashira, and sure enough, she was completely covered. Jacket buttoned up to her neck and wearing pants.

Your face reddened in horror. You completely forgot about Shinobu. You had only seen her in passing, never actually getting the chance to speak to her directly. On the occasion you had an injury or a cold, it was usually one of her girls that helped you out.

"But... but Mitsuri-"

"Is too nice to tell that pervert off," Giyuu interrupted. "I don't remember you being so nice."

"Oh, so you do remember me?" you groaned under your breath.

He sighed. His face dropped at your tone knowingly.

"Ah, finally decided to join the rest of us, huh Tomikoa?" Uzui asked. "Although you're blocking the view from our newest Hashira."

You felt the air grow cold as Giyuu's gaze hardened into a glare at Uzui's words. Slowly, he turned his head and glared at Uzui over his shoulder.

Uzui's smirked fluttered slightly and he held his hands up. "Whoa, I didn't mean it like that."

Giyuu continued to glare and you tugged on his haori. "Stop you're embarrassing me," you whispered as you watched the other Hashira turn and look at the scene.

Giyuu turned around, still glaring at Uzui as he continued to block you from view.

Annoyed by his silence, you peaked over his shoulder and smiled politely at Uzui. You tugged at Giyuu's ear and moved him away from in front of you.

Giyuu groaned under his breath and wrenched your hold from his ear to rub it.

Uzui smirked and pointed two fingers at you both. "Ah, so you two know each other, do ya? Nice!"

"No way!" A new voice yelled.

You turned and made eye contact with a larger, more muscular man covered in scars. His white hair bounced against his forehead as he stomped over to you.

He ran his eyes down your body. You didn't get the vibe he was checking you out. It felt more like he was analyzing you.

"There's no way you know Tomioka," he snarled at Giyuu before he looked back at you.

You felt small next to him, even though your nose reached his shoulder. He was the most intimidating one out of them all and not just because of his scars and build.

You looked at Giyuu. His hands were by his sides, wrapped tightly into fists. His eyes were locked onto your face, reading you in a way no one else could. His blood grew hotter the longer Sanemi looked at you.

"We grew up together," you explained. "Trained under the same Master."

"That's interesting," Kocho piped up, a smile on her face. "Tomioka hasn't mentioned you once."

Your heart tugged in your chest.

Giyuu looked at your face. Your eyes were wide, a frown on your face, a small dust of pink on your cheeks as you tugged on the uniform once again.

Giyuu closed his eyes and sighed. He walked back into your space, reached around Sanemi, and grabbed your wrist. He pulled you away from the crowd and up the stairs of the Butterfly mansion.

"Giyuu, what are you doing?" you whispered. Your ears burned in embarrassment as you felt everyone's eyes on you both.

"Kocho has spare clothes in her office."

You tugged on the uniform again, embarrassed that it was so obvious you were uncomfortable.

The smell of medicine and herbs hit your nose as it always does within these walls. You could hear Aoi and the girls talking and laughing a couple rooms down.

Giyuu opened the door to Kocho's office and pointed to a lone cabinet. "She keeps them in there."

You tried not to think about why Giyuu knows that this is where Kocho keeps her spare clothes.

Carefully, you crotched down and started to dig through the spare pants and shirts.

You heard Giyuu gasp behind you which caused you to turn and look at him over your shoulder. He glared at the wall; hands balled into fists at his sides. A dark shade of red crept up the collar of his uniform and covered his face.

The air was thick; tension rolled between the two of you. It'd been months since you'd last heard from him, since you'd last seen him. Surely, he felt the awkward pull between the two of you just as much as you.

You cleared your throat and tried to play nice. You both were Hashira now. And even though he broke his promise and you were mad at him, you still cared about him and clung onto that small part of you that hoped for things to go back to the way they were before.

You grabbed what you needed and closed the cabinet. You held up a pair of pants and laid them over your legs. "Hey, do you think these will fit?" you asked Giyuu. "I think the shirt might still be a little tight but as long as it buttons, I don't care," you laughed to yourself. You looked over at Giyuu again who was still frozen in place.

"Giyuu?"

"I'm going to kill that pervert."

You were taken aback from his words and dark tone in his voice. You looked down at your uniform again.

"It really is that bad, huh?" you flushed with embarrassment. You blamed your stupidity on your nerves.

"He doesn't deserve to see you like that," GIyuu mumbled under his breath, not wanting you to hear it, but you did.

And when he finally looked back at you, you caught it. The way his eyes darted down to take a peek at your exposed skin before he would force himself to look back at your face.

He's never seen so much of your skin before. Your usual uniform covered almost all of your body except your knees and shins. The most Giyuu had seen of you had been your thigh when you got a nasty scratch from a demon.

And even then, Giyuu left the room the second Aoi pushed your skirt up to examine the cut. You never found out why, figured it was because he was trying to respect your modesty.

But right now, Giyuu looked at you like a man who didn't know what the word 'modesty' even meant.

Whether you knew it or not, you had changed too. Your body was fuller. Through the little bit of fabric that covered your body, it was obvious you had built some descent muscle. You had grown stronger, more feminine, since the last time Giyuu had seen you.

He'd always thought you were beautiful, but seeing you for the first time in months, in that perverts uniform, it drove him crazy. Made his mouth water. Made his eyes wonder where they never had before.

He licked his lips, eyes darkening as his eyes took another swipe over your body.

Your hands gripped the clothes in your hands as you swam in the dark blue of his eyes. "Giyuu?"

He was slow to enter your space. He allowed you time to back away, but you didn't.

You weren't blind. Giyuu was incredibly handsome, beautiful even, perhaps the most attractive man you've ever seen. Ever since you were kids, you always had a small crush on him but never gave it much thought. You both were trained to be slayers, to be warriors. You didn't think there was time to have a crush, let alone act on it.

But now with him inches away from you, his breath tickling your eyelashes, the smell of him wafting in your nose, the heat coming from his body, your heart felt like it was about to explode.

Maintaining eye contact, Giyuu took the pants from your grasp and held the waistband between his fingers. He looked away from your eyes and looked down at your thighs waist. Giyuu pushed the waistband of the pants against you, fingers pressed against your hips.

You swallowed your shock; eyes locked on his hair as he pushed into you. His thumbs hooked into the pants and allowed the rest of his fingers to lay against your hips and pull you closer. You let out of a small gasp at his touch, surprised by his movements.

Giyuu looked up at you through his lashes. He didn't say anything for a moment as he took in your flushed face. The smallest smile grew on his face before he let go of your hips and handed you the pants.

"These should be good."

You loosely took the pants from his hands, still in shock from his bold touch.

You watched him turn his back to you to leave so you could change, but your words stopped him.

"You're cruel, you know that?"

He froze and you continued.

"I waited for you to write me back for months. At first, I thought you were busy, but now I see you were avoiding me," you bit your lip. "I didn't deserve that."

You didn't expect Giyuu to say anything, you actually expected him to leave and pretend nothing happened, but instead he looked at you over his shoulder.

"You're right," he admitted. "You didn't." Giyuu turned back around, his heart pounded against his chest as his eyes moved across your face. He hated the way your eyes watered without your consent, how you bit your lip to stop it from quivering, how you held the spare uniform with white knuckles and a slight tremble.

"I'm sorry."

You flinched back at his apology. "You're apologizing?" you scoffed, a smile creept on your face. "Who are you and what have you done with Giyuu?"

He rolled his eyes and turned to leave the room once again, but your hand shot out and grabbed a hold of his wrist. "I'm only teasing," your hand slid down, fingers tangled with his. "Thank you for apologizing." It wasn't much, but coming from Giyuu it was enough. For now.

Giyuu's face was red, he could feel it. His eyes were locked on the door to avoid your gaze as your fingers remained tangled with his.

He nodded once.

You scoffed and let go of his hand. Your fingers tingled and you wiped your hand on your skirt to try and stop the feeling. "I guess I'll change now," you spoke out in the open air. "You can stay there or leave; it's up to you."

Giyuu choked. The thought of you changing with him in the same room caused the heat on his cheeks to travel throughout his body. When he heard the sound of fabric moving Giyuu panicked.

"Shouldn't you..." he tried to speak but his mouth suddenly felt too dry. "But I'm not..."

You titled your head to the side, not understanding. "What's wrong?"

Giyuu swallowed and tugged on his collar. "I'm not your husband. You shouldn't be changing with me here."

You chuckled, a smirk growing on your face as you continued to change. "You can leave if you want, I didn't say you had to stay."

Giyuu continued to fiddle with his collar when he heard what sounded like your skirt falling on the floor, your shirt following soon after.

After you slid into the new uniform, you immediately felt better. The pants covered your legs, and the shirt kept you modest. You no longer feared a gust of wind or a faulty button.

Giyuu was still rooted in his same spot, incredibility stiff. You smirked to yourself and kicked your old uniform towards him. The skirt and shirt hit him in the ankle, and you watched in amusement as his shoulders tensed and his hands tugged at his own uniform, rebuttoning an already done button three times.

You crept up behind him and stood on your tiptoes. You leaned over his shoulder and whispered in his ear, "are you nervous, Giyuu?"

Giyuu gulped loud enough you heard it. "No."

You hummed. "Are you sure? You looked pretty nervous."

Giyuu shook his head, still refusing to look at you, even after feeling your breath move his hair and tickle his ear.

"Are you worried I'm standing here, naked, behind you?"

"Stop it," he said sternly. "Get dressed."

You clicked your tongue and shook your head behind him. "Always so serious."

He said your name, a warning, but you didn't listen.

This was fun.

You had never seen Giyuu so nervous around you before and it was incredibility amusing to watch.

"Tell me, Giyuu," you pierced your lips to try and keep your laughter at bay. "Do you want me to be naked behind you?"

Giyuu groaned at your words, something deep within his chest, that sent heat throughout your body. He's definitely never made that sound before.

Giyuu tilted his head turns you, not quite enough to see you, but enough for you to see his expression. He looked angry but there was something else that you didn't recognize.

In the blink of an eye, Giyuu turned around, grabbed your hips, and twirled you around so you back was against the wall next to the door.

You gasped the second you hit the wall. "Hey-"

"Shut up," Giyuu growled.

Your eyebrows pinched and you glared at him. "Can I help you?"

"You could," he tsked. "But not right now."

You raised an eyebrow. "Not right now?"

"Marry me."

Your eyes widened. "Excuse me?!"

"Marry me, then you can help me with everything I need," Giyuu's eyes darted between your eyes and your lips. He licked his own and pressed himself up against you, hands still on your waist, chest-to-chest, a thigh in-between yours.

Your face burned as you looked up at him. It had been months since you were this close to him, although, that was just two friends sparing. This, however, was completely different.

Naturally, your hands landed on his biceps, unsure if you wanted to pull him closer or push him away.

You licked your lips, not missing the way Giyuu's eyes immediately followed the movement.

"And what is it that you need, Giyuu?" you asked, voice softer than a whisper.

Giyuu's face fell closer to yours, less than an inch apart. He took a deep breath. "I need y-"

The door opened next to you and both you and Giyuu jumped apart. It was almost comical how much distance Giyuu had put between the two of you as Kocho walked into the room.

Your back straightened and you hummed. "You're right Giyuu, I forgot that there's salmon in the sake daikon." You let out a pained chuckle. "I thought it was a different kind of fish."

Giyuu rose an eyebrow at you, very confused.

"What?" He asked.

"What?" Kocho asked at the same time.

You let out a nervous laugh and waved a hand. "Never mind. Not important."

Kocho's purple eyes bounced between the two of you. She smirked at Giyuu, "Everything okay in here? We're all waiting for you two, you know."

You blushed. "Yes! Yes, I'm sorry. We just got to chatting and lost track of time." You brushed off your shirt and stood next to Kocho. "So, you're the insect Hashira I've heard so much about! Tell me, how is it that we haven't met before today? I feel like I'm always here."

Kocho chuckled and began to led you out of her office. She began to tell you about how she is always on the move with her other patients, but you couldn't bring yourself to listen.

Instead, you looked back at Giyuu, who was already looking at you, longingly. You gave him a shy smile before you exited the room with the Insect Hashira.

Fourth time: Training the others was exhausting.

In order to stand a chance against Muzan, you and your fellow Hashira agreed to train the other slayers and get them strong enough to not get killed the second they get into a fight with a demon.

It was also an attempt to unlock the slayer mark.

Your job as the Leaf Hashira was to help the other slayers maintain their balance. For their training exercise, each slayer was given stilts to tie to the bottom of their feet and then they had to fight you without losing their balance and falling. In your mind, if they could fight someone like you on stilts with no issue then they could handle any kind of terrain when they have to fight a demon.

You were exhausted.

Not only because you were spending every hour of daylight training the others, but also because you were up all night training by yourself.

Even after all the others went to bed, snoring the day away in your estate, you kept your stilts on and performed all six forms of leaf breathing over and over again until your feet with blue and your legs were numb.

Despite the chill in the air, you were burning up.

The jacket of your uniform already off and laying on your porch with your shirt sticking to you like a second skin from your sweat. You landed sixth form once again, exhaustion seeped into your bones, but you had enough energy to go again.

You walked over to the well and sat down on the roof to take a moment and catch your breath and drink a little water.

The moon provided you enough light to see the state of your courtyard. Usually, your courtyard was clean and well-maintained. The gravel raked, and your flowers bright and carried a sweet smell throughout the courtyard. Now, after days of training the others, your gravel was pushed into random piles with the dirt beneath poking through. And your flowers, your poor poor flowers, had turned into cushions for the others to fall into whenever they lost their balance.

Tanjiro had offered to replant them for you, but you had declined with a laugh. He was a sweet boy. You could see how much he respected you as he held onto every word you said. He took your constructive criticism as motivation to grow stronger and always asked questions on how he could improve.

You thought he was ready to move up to Mitsuri, but decided to keep him around for one more day to ensure he was ready. If he thought you were difficult, well, he had something else coming.

You wiped the sweat from your forehead and braced your legs, ready to go again. That was even you caught sight of him, Giyuu, stood at your gate. He looked like he had been there longer than you had realized. When your eyes met in the darkness, Giyuu finally moved away from the gate. His haori swayed behind him as he walked up the path to the engawa.

He looked tired. His feet drug through the gravel and he actually used the railing near the stairs as he climbed up them.

"Welcome," you greeted as you stood on wobbly legs.

Giyuu didn't reply and leaned against the railing. He watched you approach; head tilted up to look at your face.

You smirked. "Don't look up my pant leg, Giyuu. You know better than that."

Giyuu didn't respond, instead he took his gaze down to the stilts still attached to your feet.

"How do you get out of those?" he asked.

You were surprised by his somber tone but chose not to comment on it.

"I just lean against the roof, untie them, then jump off."

"Doesn't that hurt your legs?"

You smiled. "I try to land as gracefully as I can."

He didn't say anything else. His gaze returned to your face. Even in the darkness you could see the bags under his eyes.

"You having trouble sleeping again?" you asked into the quiet night. "I don't have anything here that'll help with that, you know. I haven't had the time to get more tea-"

"It's fine," he interrupted. He looked off into your courtyard.

You felt anxiety blossom in your chest at his tone. Giyuu usually made you guess what he was feeling, not one to share his emotions. Not one to wear them either.

But you could see it on his face, something familiar to you, something you had grown used to identifying ever since Sabito died.

Giyuu was struggling with his own thoughts, with his doubts, with his fears.

Without another word, you walked over to the roof, grabbed hold of it, and began to untie the stilts. One stilt fell to the ground, kicking up some dust and moving your gravel once again, but before you could tie the other, Giyuu reached up with both hands.

"What are you doing?" you asked.

Giyuu beckoned you towards him with his fingers. "I'll catch you."

You chuckled and wiped your cheeks to try and hide your blush.

"I just told you how I get down," you reminded him.

"And I'm offering to catch you."

You sighed. It was pointless to argue with him and you were ready to finally get out of these stilts for the night. With a tug, the rope wrapped around your foot fell, but you remained on the stilt.

"You sure?" You asked Giyuu.

He rolled his eyes and beckoned you again. As gracefully as you could, you tilted the stilt forward and you began to fall. Before your reflexes kicked in, Giyuu caught you by your waist and pulled you into his chest.

You laughed. "Whoa!" your legs wobbled, now on solid ground. "Thanks!"

You move back but Giyuu didn't let go. Instead, he pulled you closer to his chest with his arms wrapping themselves around your back.

"Giyuu-"

"Shh, just," he sunk into you, unable to finish what he was going to say.

You nodded and wrapped your arms around him, hands flat against his back, underneath his haori and rubbed his back. Your fingers bounced against the fabric of his uniform. He was warm and smelled like the woods. Something earthy, something that felt like him. His hand moved, one remained on your back but the other crept up your spine, causing you to shiver, before it threaded through your hair and cupped the back of your head. He pushed your face further into his neck as his own nuzzled into yours.

You continued to rub his back, but couldn't help but ask, "Giyuu, what's wrong? You're scaring me."

Giyuu squeezed you once before he let out a shaky breath against your skin. "Sabito, he, I just," he inhaled your scent. "I needed to see you," he repeated.

You sighed and melted into him. Your fingers gripped his clothes in an attempt to pull him even closer than he already was.

You felt his tears not soon after. His tears dripped down his nose and onto your neck and into your hair. The mix of sweat from training and his tears were uncomfortable on your skin but you didn't dare move.

You held Giyuu until his cries quieted and he finally rose his face from your neck.

You reached up and cradled his face into your hands. Your thumbs wiped the remaining tears from his face. He sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"I'm sorry," he apologized.

"Don't be," you shook your head.

He nodded. He slowly untangled his fingers from your hair and brushed the sweaty strands sticking up back down. He didn't meet your eyes, but you smiled at him anyway.

"Sabito, huh? It's been a while since you've brought him up."

Giyuu shook his head. "Was just reminded of him today. Something Tanjiro said."

You nodded. "He's a good kid. I can see why you're so fond of him."

Giyuu didn't comment on what you said. He continued to brush his fingers through your hair while keeping you close. It's not like you wanted to pull away, but he wasn't giving you much of a choice.

"I'm sorry I haven't been able to come see you. I've been busy training these kids," you gestured towards your house where the others were fast asleep. You were glad they were so exhausted because if they saw two Hashira this close in the middle of the night, they might assume something... inappropriate was happening.

Giyuu nodded. "I know."

You sighed. "Can I be honest? It's exhausting. At first it was kind of fun to order them around, especially the cocky ones, but now I just want a day to myself."

Giyuu let out a puff of air from his nose, a small laugh. "Training in the middle of the night probably doesn't help."

You rolled your eyes.

Giyuu poked your forehead. "You need to rest."

You slapped his hand away. "Don't tell me what to do."

"Just did," he poked you again. "So do it."

You scoffed. "I don't take orders from you, Mister." You leaned away from him and poked him in the chest. "You didn't even want to help with the training, so you don't get to say anything."

Giyuu rolled his eyes and loosened his hold on you, hand leaving your hair so both could sit on your hips. Your hands found their place on his chest, and you could feel his heart pounding through his uniform. You played with a random button on his chest until the exhaustion from the day began to weigh on you.

"Get. Some. Rest." Giyuu ordered as he poked you after every word.

You slapped his hand away again.

"I'm not tired just yet," you gestured behind you. "I wanted to get a few more runs in."

Giyuu rolled his eyes at your words. He brought a hand up to your cheek and forced you to look into his eyes. His eyes were puffy from crying, and the redness made the blue stand out even more than usual. But he was still your Giyuu, even when you couldn't tell what he was thinking, even when he can't express himself, he was your Giyuu.

"Where are the other pairs?" he asked.

You tilted your head.

"The other pairs of stilts," he clarified. "I'll join you."

You let out a huff. "You wanna give the stilts a try?"

Giyuu rolled his eyes and finally released his hold on you. Even though you were burning up from your previous activities, now you could feel the cool air and forced yourself not to dive back into his arms for warmth.

"How hard can it be? You do it," he said before he turned around and began to walk back down the stairs to search for a pair of stilts.

You gasped. "You jerk!"

Giyuu didn't respond but you could practically see the cockiness oozing from him as he found his own pair of stilts.

You sat on the edge of your engawa and retied yours on. Even though you could feel every muscle in your body crying for you to sit down, you ignored them, excited to duel with Giyuu. It'd been a while since the two of you dueled. You could feel adrenaline coarse through your veins.

Once your stilts were tied, you used a beam to pull yourself up until you towered over your home, the edge of the roof dug into your hips as you adjusted to the stilts once again.

You glanced over at Giyuu. His stilts were tied to his feet, and he pulled himself up just like you did until his back was straight. He stomped his feet to test the stilts and nodded, comfortable with how they were tied.

When he looked back at you, you felt your breath get caught in your throat. Something about how he looked in the moonlight caused your heart to pound against your chest.

Before, you were worried about your oldest friend. You focused on comforting him, allowed him to cry into your shoulder like you used to when you were kids. But now, something had shifted.

Giyuu walked over to the bucket of practice swords you had placed on your roof and grabbed two.

He walked over to you with bird-like elegance, as if he had been walking with stilts his entire life.

You hadn't realized you were checking him out until he was right in front of you with a raised eyebrow. You blinked and hid your blush with your hair.

He handed you the sword and you thanked him. When you reached out to grab the sword by its handle, your fingers overlapped with his. You tried to ignore how the touch of his skin burned your fingers, despite his hands being freezing cold.

You quickly took the sword and turned around to create some distance. You cursed under your breath. "Get it together," you whispered to yourself.

Not even five minutes ago you held him against you with his face buried into your neck; why the hell were you blushing over a slight hand touch?

You shook out your arms and finally met his eye.

"Ready?" you asked.

Giyuu nodded and adjusted his grip on the sword.

Then you both moved.

Training with Giyuu all your life taught you many things about him.

How he favored leading with his right foot, how he went on the defense to try and tire out his opponent, and how he was quiet about his strength. Giyuu was no Gyomei or Sanemi in terms of muscle but that doesn't mean he was weak by any means. He was stronger than you, that was a fact, but you liked to think you were faster than him.

That was why you rushed around him. You rose your sword to hit him in the back, but he turned on his heel and blocked you at the last second and pushed you back. You flew across the courtyard and landed on your stilted feet before rushing him once again.

You brought your sword down and pushed against him.

"You seem distracted," he said now that he was close.

You pushed him away to gain some distance and backed away from him. He followed of course, your swords clashed over and over as you dodged and weaved.

You scoffed. "Don't know what you're talking about."

Giyuu brought an attack down on you. You blocked but he was close. Too close. His nose was inches from yours and you could feel his breath on your face.

You squeaked and pushed him away again, but he didn't allow you to get much distance. He swung at you again and once you rose your sword to block his attack, he hooked a leg behind yours. His leg was pressed against yours, his thigh pressed against the back of yours, like you were sitting in his lap. He grabbed both sides of his sword and brought it in closer to your neck. You tried to keep it away, but at the strange angle, you struggled to gain leverage to push him away.

"You're cheating," you choked out. "You wouldn't grab the blade of your sword like that."

Giyuu scoffed and pressed himself closer to you, back now against your shoulder.

Fine, you thought. If he's going to play dirty, so am I.

"You know," you swallowed. "If you wanted me to sit in your lap so bad, you could've just asked."

No reaction.

You pushed against him again and swore.

"It's kind of nice actually. Being close to you like this, all hot and sweaty," you continued.

You smirked when he tensed.

"Can you imagine if I was still in that other uniform? You know, the one that-"

"I know the one."

You chuckled at the intensity of his words. They sat deep and heavy in his chest, almost like he groaned when he said them.

Even though your dirty play was working, his hold against you was still strong. Then you came to the realization that if you can't push forward to escape his hold, maybe pushing back against him will work.

In a quick motion, you stopped pushing against his sword and pushed your body back into him. Giyuu let out a small "oof" once he felt the weight of your body push into his and stumbled on his stilts.

You slipped underneath his arms and then you were back in the fight.

Swing, hit, swing, block. Back and forth, over and over again.

Your sore muscles protested as you moved. Your calves and feet screamed at you, tired of being on stilts for the days on end, but you refused to give up.

But the problem with knowing Giyuu as well as you do, is that he knew you just as well, if not better.

He's seen you train with both water breathing and leaf breathing. He watched you adapt to a new technique. He watched you learn how to tackle opponents larger than you without a sweat.

So, when he ducked underneath a swing from your sword and hit the back of your knee, you nearly crumbled to the ground.

"You still lock your knees," he said.

You cursed under your breath and glared at him over your shoulder.

You swear you saw a small smirk on his face and that filled your chest with a hot burst of anger.

With all your strength, you brought down your sword. Giyuu moved to block it, but the second your swords came into contact, they broke.

You stopped after hearing the sound of wood hitting the gravel beneath your feet.

Giyuu stopped as well.

You straightened and tossed the broken practice sword to the ground.

"Don't remember you playing so dirty," you teased.

Giyuu tossed his broken sword onto the ground as well and sent you a pointed glare. You could tell he was mad your little distraction actually worked and smirked at him.

"You're so easy to distract, Giyuu," you chuckle. "I didn't think that would actually work." You put your hands on your hips and clicked your tongue. "What would the others think if they heard you almost lost like that?"

You were too busy laughing that you hadn't noticed Giyuu approach you. You jumped when you turned to look at him only to be met with his chin an inch away from your face.

"I need to get you a bell," you teased.

Giyuu stared at you, face blank, but you could tell he was thinking.

"You've always played dirty" he said. "I was just taking inspiration from you." He walked away and sat on the edge of your roof to begin untying his stilts.

"You heading home?" you asked him.

Giyuu nodded and tugged on the rope wrapped around his ankle. In his hurry to remove himself from the stilt he created a knot that he couldn't seem to get undone.

You sighed and sat next to him, swatting his hands away. You tugged on the rope with nimble fingers; your tongue poked out of the corner of your mouth as you focused on the knot Giyuu had created.

Giyuus stare burned the side of your face. He watched you, unblinking, as you successfully untied the knot and allowed the stilt to fall to the gravel below. You moved your focus to the other stilt without question.

He was brought back to that one moment when you were children. The one you famously liked to bring up just to tease him. When you had been training late into the night, Sabito and Master Urokodaki asleep inside while the two of you dueled. He remembers you slipping and him accidently hitting you in the face so hard that you went flying into a nearby bush. Shame, guilt, and embarrassment washed over him every time he thought about it. He was worried you'd be upset or cry because he hurt you, but instead you laughed. You laughed, pulled him into the bush too, then picked leaves out of his hair with your tongue sticking out as you concentrated.

Warmth washed away the shame and guilt as he looked at you now. The little girl you once were, was still in there, deep within you. The same little girl that wanted nothing more than to stand by him, to support him, to care for him.

He hadn't realized you finished untying his stilts until he no longer felt your warmth over his lap. He finally blinked and sat up straighter and waited for you to untie your own stilts.

Once you were freed, you looked over at Giyuu with a sweet smile. "I'm so happy to finally be done with those for the day," you said with a chuckle. "You're going to be feeling it in your calves later."

Giyuu didn't respond. His eyes shined in the moonlight, mouth agape as he looked at you. Truly looked at you. His chest burned, his throat felt tight, and he wanted nothing more than to touch your skin, feel your breath on his face, to hold you close until the rest of the world disappeared. Until it was just you and him, together, like you always wanted.

Like he always wanted.

"Giyuu?" you asked, voice soft. "You okay?"

Giyuu didn't say anything; instead, he shifted closer to you. His thigh pressed against yours and his shoulder wedged itself into yours. His arm slid behind you, fingers brushing against your uniform pants. Giyuu leaned in close and shuddered the second he felt your breath brush his face and move his hair. With hooded-eyes, Giyuu stared at your lips. He felt like he was dying and the only cure was to feel your lips against his.

Your body melted into his as he hovered over you. You tried to blame the chill of the night air, tried to tell yourself you were cold and that's why you didn't pull away from him, but who were you kidding? You wanted this. You wanted him.

Your eyes fluttered as you blinked up at him. He looked like he was holding himself back. The hand that wasn't behind you twitched at his side. Your mouth watered and you licked your lips.

Giyuu watched you do it and let out a shaky sigh. "Tell me to stop," he whispered. "Tell me."

You mirrored him with a slide of your hand until it was behind him. Fingers caught on his uniform pants, shoulder pressed against his, chests only a couple inches apart.

You shook your head. "I can't."

Giyuu shivered, "thank god."

Then his lips were on yours. At first, it was awkward, the inexperience the two of you shared obvious, but with a small adjustment his lips fit into yours like they were made for each other.

Fire burned in your veins at the feeling of his lips on yours. You'd be a liar if you said you never thought about kissing Giyuu before. You've thought about it for years, but never truly thought it would happen. Certainly not now, in the middle of the night, on your roof, both of you covered in sweat with sore muscles and feet. But it was more than you could've ever imagined.

Your hands trembled at the intensity of his kiss. To control your trembling, you snaked your free hand up to rest on his chest. You could feel his heart pounding through his uniform, the heat from his skin, and the vibrations of a low groan in his throat.

Giyuu's free hand reached over your lap and grabbed your thigh, fingers digging into the plush skin, blunt nails scratching at your skirt like it personality offended him.

Your lips moved against each other in hurried, sloppy movements. As an experiment, Giyuu poked your bottom lip with his tongue and when you opened your mouth without a second of hesitation he thought he was going to have a heart attack.

Your tongue brushed and you couldn't stop the small moan from slipping out of your mouth and against his lips. His taste, his scent, his touch, it was driving you crazy. When he let out his own moan in response, you forced yourself to pull away. Giyuu chased after you, lips searching for yours blindly, but you pushed against his chest to keep him back.

You giggled. "Hold on. I gotta catch my breath."

Giyuu shook his head, eyes locked on your lips. "No, you don't." He pressed his lips against yours once again like a man addicted to the feeling.

You giggled and broke the kiss again. "Yes, I do." The hand on his chest slid up to his shoulder.

Giyuu groaned and pulled at your leg with the strength of a starving man. He moved you so you hovered over his lap, straddling him.

You threw your arms around his shoulders. "Careful! We're still on the roof in case you forgot."

Giyuu snaked his arms around your waist. You could feel his rough, calloused fingers dragging over your uniform, crawling at the fabric, tugging it to pull you closer.

"I got you," he said before crashing his lips against yours once again.

There was more confidence behind this kiss.

His hands seemed to have a mind of their own. Even though they started on your waist, they moved up and down your back. You arched your back, sensitive to his touch, and pressed your chest against his.

Giyuu's hands found their homes on your lower back and your neck. His fingers tangled into the hair at the base of your neck to keep you close.

You cupped his jaw, thumbs brushing against the softness of his cheeks.

You bit his lip and pulled back slightly. Giyuu's eyes fluttered open for a moment and with a groan shoved his tongue back into your mouth. You took turns swirling and sucking on each other's tongues and with each desperate swipe of a tongue or nibble of a lip you could feel the pool in your belly grow and grow.

You broke the kiss for a second. "Giyuu," you whimpered before he pressed his lips back against yours. "Giyuu."

He broke the kiss. "Yes?"

Your body was trembling, adrenaline and something hotter coursing through you. You were burning, every touch, every kiss left you breathless. Like you had just ran miles and miles to get here.

"You sure?" you asked.

Giyuu's eyebrows pinched, confused, before his eyes brightened in recognition. His wondering hands moved up to cup your jaw, mirroring how you were holding him.

"You've ruined me for anyone else," he admitted, voice strong and firm. "I don't want to stop. And I don't mean just tonight."

Your body shivered, a mix of the cold air creeping up your back and the heaviness of his words.

You nodded and placed a slow, soft, kiss onto his cheek. The same cheek you kissed when you were kids.

Giyuu dropped your face and wrapped his arms above your back. He pulled you into a deep hug, face buried into your neck just like before. You could feel his hands shaking against your back. Your arms snaked around his neck and ever-so-slowly, you rocked your hips against his.

Giyuu's hold tightened and he whimpered into your neck. His eyes squeezed shut and he placed small kisses on your skin. He scooted back, getting further away from the edge of your roof. He moved back so his legs no longer hung off of the side and he could lay down. You adjusted, hands on either side of his head to hover above him, hips still moving.

You could feel his arousal through your uniforms and chuckled when you caught a peak of the blush on his cheeks.

You lowered to kiss him again. Your lips were bruised and your chin was wet, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. You only wanted more.

With a good roll of your hips that set heat through both of your bodies, Giyuu pushed you away. His nose pressed into yours as he fought with himself not to dive back in.

"Say you'll marry me," he whimpered.

In your lust-filled haze, you didn't understand him at first.

"What?" you asked.

Giyuu stopped your hips from rocking, knuckles white as they gripped your hips.

"Say you'll marry me," he repeated. "I don't want to stop, but I can't do this without you saying yes."

You shook your head, finding humor in his timing. You snaked your hands through his hair, which caused a groan to slip through his bruised lips and his eyes to roll back.

"Please," he whispered your name. "Say it."

"Giyuu," you looked into his dark blue eyes. "I love you."

He froze beneath you. The tremble in his hands stopped and his breath got caught in his throat.

"I've loved you since we were kids," you gave him a watery smile. "Of course, I want to marry you." You watched his eyes brighten and your heart broke at his excitement. "But we can't. Muzan, he... he's planning something and... and we have to be ready for it."

You watched Giyuu's eyes go blank and deep frown form on his bruised lips. It felt like his heart was just ripped out of his chest. He knew you were right, of course he did. Muzan was planning something, something big. It's the whole reason why you and the other Hashira were training the other slayers. Why you were up late into the night training on your own. Why Tanjiro keeps showing up on his doorstep every day to ask him about training.

It just wasn't the right time.

Your eyes watered. "I'm sorry," you sniffled. "I'm so sorry."

Giyuu shook his head and pulled you down to lay on him. One hand rubbed your back while the other played with your hair as you cried into his neck. The heat from before was gone, the cool fall air gave the two of you goosebumps as it passed, but neither of you moved.

Giyuu held you tight that night. He never let go, didn't even squirm when the tile from the roof began to dig into his back. Instead, he blinked his own tears away and swallowed his sobs.

"It's okay," he choked out. "I..." he swallowed and turned his head to nuzzle his face into your hair. He inhaled your scent, a mix of sweat and something floral, but all you. He let out a shaky sigh.

"I love you too."

Fifth time: It was over.

No more demons.

No more late nights hunting and killing.

No more training.

It's over.

It took some adjusting. Your body had grown used to waking up with the sun and walking through the night with the moon as your only friend. Now you sleep in and go to bed the second your eyes feel tired.

You hung up your sword, even though it was damaged after the battle, you hung it up on your bedroom wall in its sheath, never to be picked up again.

One of your favorite parts of retirement was being able to dress for you. You wore pretty yukatas in all kinds of colors and patterns and spent your extra money on pretty hairpins at the market to match.

It took some time, but you finally beginning to enjoy retirement.

Your actual favorite part was being able to spend time with your friends. After the war ended, you became a frequent visitor at the Tengen household. They would invite you for meals, to the hot springs, Suma even taught you how to sew last week. It was fun.

Tengen was incredibly kind, even though he liked to tease you. Today you stopped by to bring your friends some homemade bread, an old recipe Mitsuri had taught you ages ago. They asked you to stay and chat but you declined and promised to stop by later in the week for dinner.

Ever the gentleman, Tengen offered you his arm and walked you out to the front gate.

"I'm beginning to think my girls like you more than me," he joked.

You chuckled at his words, something you don't find yourself doing very often anymore. "I have been told that I am quite charming."

Tengen nudged your side with his elbow. "Wasn't I the one to tell you that?"

"Maybe you were." You squeezed his arm and stopped at the gate. "I hope you enjoy the bread. I made a test loaf just to make sure it was actually edible."

Tengen chuckled. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

You let go of his arm and took a step away.

"Have you heard anything from Tomioka yet?" he said before you could get too far.

You froze at his question. You haven't seen Giyuu since the last, and final, Hashira meeting. At first, you both agreed you needed time to adjust, to get used to retirement life, to face your nightmares alone. But that was weeks ago, and even though you've written to him, asked him to come by your home for dinner, he never answered. One time you went to his estate to confront him, but he wasn't there and you couldn't bring yourself to do it again.

And Tengen knew that. You had opened up to him about your feelings for Giyuu over hot food and sake soon after you tried to see him at his estate. Tengen could see how much it bothered you, how you blamed yourself for something that wasn't your fault, how you didn't understand why Giyuu was avoiding you.

You swallowed and looked down at your feet. "No."

Tengen hummed and his eyes hardened with disappointment. He didn't tell you that he saw Giyuu just last week, or the fact that Giyuu wouldn't stop talking and asking about you. If you were eating enough, if you have been sleeping, if you looked happy.

Tengen placed his hand on your shoulder and gave you a polite squeeze. "Maybe you should go to his estate again."

Your heart twisted painfully in your chest.

"I don't know, Tengen. I don't think he wants to see me."

"Oh please. You went over there once when he wasn't home. That doesn't mean he's avoiding you!" he snapped.

Your head snapped up at him. "He hasn't answered any of my letters, Tengen! He hasn't come over even though I've told him multiple times in said letters that he could."

"It's Tomioka," Tengen reminded you as he rolled his eye. "The man is as dense as a rock."

You opened your mouth to argue but Tengen placed a large hand on your shoulder and silenced you. "I know you're afraid, but you both are going crazy without each other."

Your eyes widened. "How do you know?"

Tengen rolled his eyes. "I just do, okay? You talk about each other all the time."

You flinched at his words. "So, you've seen him?"

Tengen said your name, voice softening, eye twinkling. "That's not important right now. Look, you're not stupid. You've never been a stupid woman. But Tomioka has been a stupid man. You need to go to him if you ever want to see him again."

You crossed your arms and kicked dust with your feet. "Why do I have to be the one to do it?"

"I repeat: Tomioka is a stupid man. Try again. Today! Go over there and don't take his silence as an answer. Break down his door if you have to!"

Your mouth twitched in amusement. "'Break down his door?'"

"Yes! Because by God if I have to listen to either of you talk about the other for one second longer, I'm going to take out my other eye!" he exclaimed as he shook your shoulder.

"Oh my god! Fine!" you rolled your eyes at his dramatic nature. "I'll go there now, just, leave your good eye alone." You turned and left his estate without another word.

On your way to Giyuus home, you chewed on your fingernails as your mind ran in circles on what the hell you were supposed to say to him.

Your first thought was to be angry. He abandoned you, again, even after everything the two of you had been through.

But another part of you wanted to cry and hold him. You loved him, he said he loved you, said he wanted to marry you before the battle. But he still left. Never reached out. Left you behind.

Anger and sadness clashed together in your mind until his estate came into view.

Anxiety was the dominating emotion as you stared at the closed gate. Your body screamed at you to turn around, to give up, to go home and crawl into your bed and cry in self-pity.

You opened the gate.

The door drug on the gravel as you pushed it open enough to squeeze through. You stepped in and closed the gate behind you, cringing at the volume of the moving gravel.

You tiptoed through his courtyard and admired his garden. The gravel was racked into a beautiful pattern without a single weed which impressed you far more than it should. You could tell he took a lot of time out of his day to take care of his garden. The flowers in his garden were all open, bright, and smelled amazing.

You slowly approached the front door and with a shaky fist, knocked twice. You waited and tried to listen for movement with your good ear but couldn't hear anything. Embarrassed, you knocked again, a little louder, but still, nothing.

You sighed and lowered your fist. You cursed Tengen before you turned to leave, but then the door opened.

Your head snapped to the door, hand reaching out for the ghost of a sword, but then you relaxed.

"Giyuu?" you asked, voice small.

His blue eyes widened as he whispered your name in disbelief. His eyes scanned your face as if he forgot what you looked like.

Your eyes did the same and you held back a gasp when you noticed he cut his hair.

Neither of you said anything for a while. You just stared at each other, waiting for the other to make a move, say something, but everything was still.

You felt tears pool in your eyes and a lump grow in your throat. You forced yourself to swallow and with a shaky sigh you grew the courage to speak.

"You're cruel, you know that?" your own voice felt different. It was raw and broken as you stared at the person who has broken your heart over and over again yet held it so gently, like it was a flower from his garden.

"I've written you letters. Waited for you to come by the house," you pointed a finger at him. "But you never reached out. Never came over." The tears began to fall, and you began to choke on your words.

Giyuu took one step closer, but you backed away from him.

"You're a cruel, cruel man, Giyuu Tomioka. I don't deserve this. After everything, I don't deserve it!"

You waited for a response. You watched his body, waited for him to move, but he didn't. He was frozen, staring at you, as if he couldn't tell if you were real or not.

You choked out another sob and wiped your eyes. You had hoped for a fight, a response, an apology, anything from him but he gave you nothing.

"Fine," you whispered under your breath. "I guess if you have nothing to say then... forget it. Have a good life, Tomioka." You turned on your heel and marched down the stairs to the gate, trying to keep your sobs quiet until you were far enough away.

A hand grabbed your forearm and stopped you in your tracks.

Giyuu whimpered your name and you could tell he was crying.

"Please, don't go," he begged, voice quiet.

You wiped your face on your sleeve. "Is that really all you have to say?" You heart twisted in your chest. "Damn you."

"I've been a coward," he began. "I haven't been fair to you, I know that."

Slowly, you turned and looked at him. He looked younger, healthier, like he had been getting proper rest. But his eyes are what stopped you. Giyuu looked at you with such intensity it was earth shattering. His eyes were begging you to stay, to listen, to hear him out.

"Please, stay. Let me explain."

You shook your head, lip quivering. "You broke my heart when you didn't come."

Giyuu shook his head, hand shaking and tightening on your arm. "Please! Please, let me explain! And... and then if you never want to see me again then," he looked nauseous at the thought. "Then we can go our separate ways."

You struggled with his words, with his pleading. You didn't want to stay; you didn't want to hear him out. You just wanted to go home. But this was Giyuu you were talking to. The same Giyuu that you grew up with. The same Giyuu who was one of your first friends. The same Giyuu that helped you grow as a warrior. The same Giyuu who stood up for you when that pervert tailor made you that goddamn uniform. The same Giyuu who was your first and last kiss.

So, you followed him to the engawa and sat down next to him with a healthy amount of distance and he talked.

He talked until he was practically blue in the face. Until he made sure he said everything he wanted to say without interruption. How at first he needed time to think, to adjust. How he didn't leave his bed for a week until deciding enough was enough and reached out to Tanjiro, to Tengen. But not to you because he could never get his words right and had a growing pile of crumbed papers sitting in the corner of his room all addressed to you.

All you could do was listen. You nodded every time he snuck a glance at you through his lashes. You hummed to encourage him to continue when he got hung up on his words. You listened and didn't look away until he was done.

He trailed off his final thought and the two of you sat in silence. The sound of birds chirping in the distance filed that silence until you finally looked away from him. You watched the clouds above you and tried to make up shapes to distract yourself from your shaky hands and quivering lip.

Giyuu shuffled. "You don't have to forgive me," he said, timidly.

You sighed and closed your eyes. "It's... a lot."

"I know," he admitted. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Please don't apologize," you asked and swallowed the lump in your throat. "I think I need some time to think."

Giyuu nodded. "Sure."

You stood, fists down at your sides. "But," you bit your lip. "I'm open to the idea of... forgiveness."

Giyuu stood up behind you. "Really?"

You nodded. "But I'm going to need some effort from you from here on out. If I forgive you this time, I don't think I can the next," you threatened even though it made bile crawl up your throat, forcing you to swallow.

Giyuu nodded behind you. "I understand. I'll do better." He ran a hand through his hair. "Thank you."

Doubt clouded your mind but took his words with you and left his estate without another word.

Giyuu started sending you letter every day after that. He would ask how you were doing, if you had been to the market lately, if you've been eating enough. He also shared some details about how he was doing. How he visited Tengen and chewed out by the former Sound Pillar for how he's treated you, what he'd been eating, a new book he was reading.

It was... nice. Almost nostalgic. It reminded you of when you were kids and how the three of you passed notes back and forth under Master Urokodaki's nose.

In his most recent letter, Giyuu asked if he could come see you. To your surprise and his, you agreed, and now you waited anxiously for his knock.

You chewed on your nails and paced your living room for what felt like hours. You had deep cleaned your home though you felt silly for it when you remember it was just Giyuu coming over. He's seen your space in all stages of cleanliness throughout your lives, and you felt embarrassed that you scrubbed the floors so vigorously early that morning.

A knock to your door interrupted your pacing. You swallowed and wiped your clammy hands on your yukata before opening the door.

You gasped at the large bouquet of flowers presented in front of you. Giyuu peaked at you over the vibrant pedals and watched your reaction closely.

He cleared his throat and gave the bouquet a little shake, urging you to take it.

"For you," he said, trying to sound causal even though his heart was trying to burst out of his chest.

You took the flowers and gave them a sniff.

"Thank you," you said and stepped to the side. "Please, come in."

Giyuu nodded and entered your home for the first time in months. He toed off his shoes and followed you to your kitchen.

He watched you trim the flowers before putting them in a nice vase.

"They're from my garden," he told you. "I thought they smelled the best." He cringed at his own awkwardness. He felt sweaty, could you tell he was sweaty?

"They're beautiful. Maybe I need to have you come over to tend to my garden."

Giyuu smiled. "I could do that."

You were used to the silence in your home. You did live alone after all. But this silence was different. It was thick, awkward, filled with tension.

Giyuu leaned against the wall of your kitchen. His eyes traveled up and down your body, allowing himself the privilege to look at you in such a domestic setting.

"You look beautiful," he whispered into the silence.

You tensed at his words and cursed your warming cheeks.

"I don't think I've ever seen you in that color before," he continued.

You glanced down at your yukata. It was new, you thought the color complimented your skin tone nicely and liked the designs on the front. Your hair was held by a hairpin that matched, the beads almost the exact same color of the fabric.

"I bought this at the market a couple days ago," you told him.

He hummed in acknowledgement.

You finished meddling with the flowers and gestured towards your teapot. "Tea?"

Giyuu swallowed, throat drying the longer he looked at you. "Please."

The two of your moved through your home like you were walking on eggshells. Stiff, tiptoeing around the space afraid that the slightest movement would scare the other away.

You sipped on the tea in silence on opposite sides of your table. You kneeled in front of each other and sipped. You would glance at him over your cup and would tense when your eyes would meet over the rims.

"I saw Tanjiro the other day," you decided to say, tired of the quiet.

Giyuu hummed. "He mentioned that he was going to see you. He seemed excited. Has it been a while seen you've last seen each other?"

You circled a finger around the rim of your cup with a raised eyebrow pointed at him. "Like you don't know. That boy tells you everything."

Giyuu smiled fondly. "He's a good kid."

Conversation remained light between the two of you for a while. It was all the same stories and topics you shared in your letters, but it felt nice to hear anyway. You were happy for the break in tension.

As your cups ran empty and the stories faded it grew quiet between the two of you again.

You sighed and pushed your cup with your finger.

"I missed you," Giyuu said.

And just like that the tension came back tenfold, grasping at your throat and squeezing at his words.

You frowned and sat up. "Thank you for stopping by," you gestured to your door and shifted to get ready to stand. "It was nice having you."

Giyuu said your name, "don't do that."

"Do what?" you asked, acting clueless.

He said your name again and leaned forward. "I'm sorry."

You shook your head. "Please don't."

"I wanted to reply to your letters before-"

"But you didn't."

Giyuu ran a hand through his hair. "And I'm sorry for that."

"Stop it," you snapped. "Stop apologizing."

"No!" Giyuu sat up straighter. "I will apologize over and over again until you stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" you scoffed.

"Like I'm just some random guy sitting in your house."

"Well, right now you are."

You watched the hurt flash on Giyuus face, but he was quick to hide it. "I told you that I would do anything to make you forgive me."

"And what if that never happens, huh? What if I tell you to get out and that I never want to see you again?"

"Do it then! Don't hang it over my head!"

You pointed a finger at him. "Don't you dare get mad at me. This is your fault!"

"I know it is!"

"Then why are you yelling at me like it's mine?!"

Giyuu stood and you copied him. You glared at each other of the table and empty cups.

"You were the one that broke his promise."

"I needed time! I told you that!" Giyuu shook his head in disbelief. "I told you why I did it. I told you how I regret it. Damnit, I love you!"

"'Love me?!'" you couldn't help but let out a humorless laugh. "That was love? You ignoring me? You avoiding me? That was you loving me?"

GIyuu sighed through his nose, his glare darkening. "I will do anything to take it back, but I can't. I can't take it back! I regret it. But I will do everything in my power to make it up to you."

"I still don't understand why it's so hard for you to keep one promise."

"I told you why!"

"Because you're a coward?"

"Because I'm afraid!"

"Of what?"

"Of losing you anyway!"

Neither of you spoke for a moment. Your heavy breaths filled the tight space. Your hands were wrapped in tight fists at your sides, knuckles white with a slight tremble.

Your eyes were watery, but you blinked rapidly to keep the tears at bay.

"I don't understand you," you choked out. "Muzan is gone. There are no more demons. And yet, you're still scared of losing me? What, you think you're going to wake up one day, come over, and find me dead on my floor?"

"Don't say that," he snapped. "Don't even joke about that."

"Then help me Giyuu! Help me understand because there's something I'm missing!" You wiped your face with your hands and began to pace in front of him. "It's all finally over. The training, the hunting, the killing, the blood, the screams, it's done. We finally have time to be normal people! To heal! We can take time out our days to learn how to sew, garden, and bake bread!" Your knees buckled but you caught yourself on a nearby wall. Giyuu reached out to steady you, but you rose a hand to stop him in his place. "Why don't you want that with me?" you asked pathetically.

GIyuu wiped his eyes on his sleeve and looked away from you. He glared at the front door and debated on whether to storm out or not. He bit his lip until he tasted copper.

"Time isn't guaranteed for us." Giyuu dug his fingers into his eyes and took a deep breath. He shook his head, still avoiding your eyes. "I don't think I can handle finally having you in my grasp... just for it to be taken away."

Realization sunk into your body.

You both had unlocked the mark during the battle. You both knew what that meant and it hung heavily in-between you.

"We can pretend to be normal. Sew, garden, bake bread," he sniffled. "But I don't want to wake up one day and have you not do the same." You finally caught his eye and he shrunk into himself. "I couldn't handle it."

"Then why even make an offer? Why beg for my forgiveness if you're so afraid?" you asked. Your skirts brushed the floor as you moved in front of him. You ducked your head to try and get into his line of sight that was now directed toward the ground.

You allowed the tears to fall down your cheeks. He looked so small... so broken by the thought that you won't get the time together that you deserve.

Giyuu choked out a sob and wiped his face on his sleeve. "Because I'm a selfish man," he shook his head. "A selfish, selfish man that loves you."

You choked on his words and allowed yourself to crumble to the floor.

Giyuu kneeled in front of you and didn't hesitate to pull you into his lap. You wrapped your arms around his waist and buried your face into his neck and sobbed. You cursed him as you cried but only pulled him in closer.

Giyuu cried into your shoulder, hand in the middle of your back to keep you against him. Your legs were straddling his thighs, locked together behind him back. You were curled into each other and let everything out. The weight of everything that has happened to you came crashing down in waves. The Infinity Castle, the screams, the blood, deaths of your comrades, your friends, the injuries you left with, everything.

When the sun began to set your sobs came to a stop. Your eyes were swollen and itchy, Giyuus were no better. Both of your shoulders were soaked in tears and snot, and your hips and backs were achy from sitting on the floor in such curled positions, but neither of you moved.

"Giyuu?" you whispered in his ear.

His hold on your back tightened as he hummed.

"I think I'd like to try again."

Giyuu cleared his throat and nuzzled into the soft skin of your neck. "Try what again?"

You slowly pulled away from his shoulder and wiped your face on your sleeve. Giyuus hand gripped the fabric of your yukata and his eyes widened in panic.

"Shh, shh, I'm not going anyway," you cupped his face and wiped his tear-stained cheeks. "I mean, try this retirement thing out again together. Enjoy the time we have with each other instead of hiding behind letters and closed doors."

Giyuu cleared his throat and gave you a small nod. "I would like that."

You hummed and slid your hand down his arm and pulled it out from behind your back to interlace your fingers with his. The callouses that once covered his hands were almost gone, his skin was soft and warm, a little clammy, but you didn't want to pull away.

"We'll take it slow, okay? Be selfish together."

Giyuu sniffled. "Yeah, I think I can do that."

And that's what you did.

You and Giyuu took things slow as you rebuilt your friendship without the pressure of time or fear of demons lurking in the dark.

It started with you teaching him how to make Mitsuri's bread recipe and enjoying it on his engawa later that evening.

Then he showed you his garden and what he learned from the many gardening books he picked up. He kept his word and began to make daily visits to your home to take care of your flowers. They were quite happy.

You showed him your sewing projects. You playfully smacked his shoulder when he laughed at your first attempt at making a shirt.

He invited you every time he went to visit Tanjiro and his friends. All of whom were so excited to see you.

When the two of you visited Tengen and his girls, Giyuu had been a gentleman the entire night. Probably because he chewed him out last time they talked, or maybe, just maybe, Giyuu was still thinking about how Tengen looked at you in that damn uniform. You glared at Tengen's teasing smirk when GIyuu pulled out your chair for you and offered to carry the sewing box Suma let you borrow so you could practice more at home.

You allowed him to guide you through the crowds at the market with his hand on your lower back even though he hated crowds.

He allowed you to brush his hair and fuss over how soft it had begun now that he was able to take frequent baths and wash it.

After a month, Giyuu had asked you on a date.

"Just dinner," he had said.

But it was more than that. The restaurant was nice and the food was some of the best you've had in a while. You couldn't remember the last time you smiled so much or laughed so hard.

Giyuu walked you home, like he always did, with an easy smile on his face. You held onto his bicep the entire time. Giggles slipping through your lips as you walked, the air light and warm.

When the two of you stood at your door, Giyuu looked down at you and smiled.

"I had fun tonight," he said.

You giggled and squeezed his arm before letting go. "Me too."

Giyuu lingered at the door like he wanted to say more but couldn't find his words.

"Giyuu, would you like to come in for bit?" you asked, fingers crossed behind your back.

Giyuu's eyes widened and he swallowed. "Sure."

The air outside may have been light, but inside, it thickened with anticipation. Nerves swam over the two of you, stealing shy glances before looking away with soft smiles and rosy cheeks.

You both said each other's names at the same time and chuckled.

"Please," Giyuu gestured to you. "You first."

"I just wanted to say thank you."

Giyuu took a step closer. "For tonight?" he asked.

You took a step. "For everything you've done for me this past month. I really appreciate all the effort you put into our time together."

Giyuu smiled and ran a hand through his hair, something you noticed he does more often now that it was short. "I promised you I would do better."

"Yes," you nodded and took a step. "I've enjoyed being selfish with you."

Giyuu took the final step so you were inches apart. Your chest bumped into his as you breathed. You stared at him longingly. Even after all this time, he was still the most handsome man you had ever seen; even more so now that he was getting proper sleep and ate three meals a day. He was finally at peace, and it looked so good on him.

"So, thank you," you whispered, looking up at him through your lashes.

Giyuu's eyes fluttered closed for a moment and he inhaled.

"I would do it all over again if it meant you forgave me for being such a coward."

You giggled, chest light, cheeks aching from how much you were smiling tonight.

"I do forgive you."

Giyuu sighed in relief and pressed his forehead against yours, drinking you in.

"Does this mean I can kiss you again?" he asked.

His breath tickled your face, and you squirmed against him. "You've thought about kissing me again?"

"Only every time I look at you," a timid hand reached out and grabbed your hip. "Ever since I kissed you on your roof."

You gasped. "Really?" you asked, surprised.

Giyuu hummed.

"But didn't you want to say something too?"

Giyuu shook his head, his nose brushing against yours playfully. "Not important anymore."

You brought your hands up and hooked them around his neck. "Well, I think I've kept you waiting long enough, don't you?"

Giyuu shivered when your cold hands touched the back of his neck. "Mhm."

Not wanting to waste another second, you reached up and pressed your lips against his. You both let out sighs of relief when your lips slipped together just as easily as they did all those months ago. Giyuus hold on your hip tightened as he tugged you closer to him, body pressing against yours, eager to get as close to you as he possibly could. You stood on your tiptoes to press your lips harder against his and he groaned.

Kissing Giyuu washed away everything that had been swimming your brain for the last month. The guilt, the fear, the doubt, everything. You only felt him, his passion, his kindness, his love.

Your fingers crawled up the back of his neck and tangled into his hair. He moaned against your lips and pulled away just a hair to try and catch his breath.

"I never told you," you whispered against his lips. "But I really like your haircut."

Giyuu chuckled and placed a sweet peck on your lips. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's almost softer than it was before."

Giyuus hand cupped your cheek. "I'll keep that in mind," he teased with a smile before he kissed you again.

What started as sweet kisses turned into desperate swipes of the tongue, nibbles to the lip, all with sweet moans mixing with the wet sounds of two people relearning how to kiss each other.

You don't remember moving, but you gasped when your back suddenly came into contact with your bedroom door. Giyuu chased after your lips, unable to pull himself away from you for more than a second at a time. His touch was everywhere. Your hip, your back, your neck, in your hair, until his hand patted your butt and he asked you to jump.

You squealed in surprise when he caught you.

"I got you, don't worry," he promised before finally giving your lips a break and trailing his lips down your cheek to your jaw then your neck.

You couldn't stop the small moans from leaving your bruised lips as he nipped and licked at your sensitive skin. You rolled your hips against his, desperate to get closer to him and he groaned into your neck.

He gently set you back on your wobbly feet and pressed back against your hips to keep you still.

"Hold on, hold on, hold on," he begged. Giyuu looked down at you through his dark blue eyes and let out a soft moan before pressing his lips against yours once more like he was trying to savor your taste before he pulled away again.

He mumbled your name and nudged your nose with his, hand shaking in your hair like he was forcing himself to hold back.

"My values haven't changed," he choked out, voice thick with lust. "I don't want to stop, but I can't do this without you saying yes."

Even in your clouded mind you knew what he was trying to say and couldn't help but laugh.

You cupped his face lovingly, thumbs brushing against his pink cheeks.

"Then ask me."

Giyuu smiled at you, practically beaming before he slowly got down on both of his knees in front of you. He held your hand tight, fingers interlacing as he looked up at you with those bright blue eyes you have grown to love after all these years.

He said your name, practically purring it out of his bruised lips.

"Will you marry me?"

Your eyes watered and you fell to your knees in front of him.

"Yes," you chuckled with tears streaming down your face. You pecked his lips and sighed. "I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner."

Giyuu shook his head. "Don't be," he pecked your lips once, twice, three times. "You were worth the wait."

So, we all agree the cheek she kissed was the same one Sabito hit when they were kids, right? The same cheek where Giyuu's mark appeared? Yeah, yeah good.

Also Giyuu gives me vibes that he'd get on both knees to propose sorry not sorry.

This has been sitting in the drafts for a while so I'm happy it's finally finished! Hope you enjoyed! :D

[velvetghoul]

Sweet Dreams

✩ Trafalgar D. Law

contains explicit smut, rough sex, oral sex, fingering, choking, semi-public, dirty talk, overstimulation, creampie, comfort, emotional repression, morning-after teasing

Law came back to the cabin looking like someone had carefully removed every working part of him and left the attitude behind out of spite.

He shut the door with his heel, Kikoku still in hand, hat low over his eyes. His shoulders were tight. His jaw was worse. There was blood on his sleeve that probably wasn’t his, which meant he would ignore it until someone else made it inconvenient.

You were already on his bed with one of his blankets over your legs, reading a book you had stopped pretending to care about twenty minutes ago.

“You look charming,” you said.

Law gave you a flat look. “Don’t start.”

“That bad?”

He set Kikoku against the wall with too much care. “No.”

So yes.

You put the book aside and stood. He watched you like he expected you to ask him what happened, and you didn’t. You just took his hat off, placed it on the desk, and reached up to push your fingers through his hair.

For a second, he stayed perfectly still, then his eyes shut.

“You’re eating,” you said.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re eating.”

“I’m your captain.”

“And I’m very impressed. Sit down.”

His mouth twitched like he wanted to argue, but he was too tired to make it worth the effort. He sat on the edge of the bed while you brought him the bowl from the little warmer you had stolen from the galley. Rice, broth, fish. Nothing fancy. Nothing heavy.

Law stared at it. “You poisoned this?”

“I considered it, but Bepo looked sad.”

“Mm. Weak.”

You sat beside him and held the bowl until he took it. He ate slowly at first, like he was doing it only to shut you up. You kept your fingers in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp between pauses, and the longer you did it, the more his posture sank.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Enough for you.

There were entire confessions in the way Law accepted being touched without making a miserable comment about it.

When the bowl was empty, you took it from him and placed it aside. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face hidden in his hands. You kept stroking his hair.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

The Polar Tang hummed around you, deep and steady under the sea. The sound filled the room, safer than silence, gentler than the things neither of you wanted to name.

Eventually he turned his head just enough that his cheek rested against your thigh.

You looked down at him. “That’s new.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re cuddling my leg.”

“I’m resting.”

“On me.”

“Mm.”

You smiled, but you didn’t tease him further. Your fingers slid through his hair again, slower now, nails barely touching his scalp. He exhaled through his nose, quiet and rough.

It should not have felt intimate, but it did.

He turned his face slightly, and his lips brushed the inside of your wrist.

You stopped breathing for half a second.

His eyes opened, sharp even half-dead with exhaustion. For a moment, he looked at your wrist like he hadn’t meant to do that. Like his body had moved before his control returned.

Then, because he was impossible, he did it again.

A warmer kiss.

Your fingers tightened in his hair. “Law.”

“Problem?”

His voice was low, tired, almost bored. You hated him a little. “No.”

“Then stop looking offended.”

“I’m not offended.”

“You look like you’re trying to decide whether to hit me or climb me.”

You stared at him. He looked back, deadpan, mouth barely curved.

“You’re the worst man alive.”

“Probably.”

Then he kissed your palm. Not quickly. Not as a joke. His mouth pressed there like he was testing your pulse, your patience, both.

Heat crawled up your arm.

He pulled back just enough to look at you properly. His eyes were dark, shadowed from lack of sleep, but clearer now. More present. More dangerous in the quiet way.

“You’re still thinking too loudly,” he murmured.

“I’m thinking you should sleep.”

“I was.”

“You were kissing my hand.”

“Multitasking.”

You laughed under your breath, and something in his face changed. He reached for you then, one hand closing around your hip, and pulled you down with him under the blanket. It was clumsy only because he was exhausted. Law being clumsy felt illegal.

You ended up half beside him, half on him, your knee between his legs, his arm around your waist. The blanket slipped over both of you, trapping heat fast.

“This is a terrible sleeping position,” you said.

“Then leave.”

His hand spread over your back and held you there.

You looked down at him. “You are very bad at bluffing.”

“I’m excellent at bluffing.”

“You’re literally holding me hostage.”

“You’re not resisting.”

Fair.

His mouth found your wrist again, then your forearm, slow little kisses that did not match the sharpness of his face at all. You watched him do it, feeling each one settle lower in your stomach.

Comfort turned strange that way. One moment you were keeping him together. The next, his lips were on your skin and the air was too warm and his hand had slipped beneath the back of your shirt.

His fingers were ice cold.

Law’s mouth twitched against your arm. “Sensitive?”

“Your hands are freezing.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“That explains nothing.”

“It explains enough.”

His hand flattened against your lower back, then slid up, warmer now from your skin. He touched you like he was still trying not to ask for anything. Like he could make this practical if he moved carefully enough.

You leaned down and kissed him.

That broke the last useful thought in the room.

He kissed back slowly at first, his mouth firm and tired, one hand cupping the back of your neck. Then your fingers tugged lightly in his hair and he made a sound so low you almost missed it.

You didn‘t miss the way his grip tightened.

“Do that again,” he said against your mouth.

You smiled. “Ask nicer.”

His eyes opened. Exhausted, half-wrecked, still somehow arrogant enough to ruin your life. “You’re warm, fed, and in my bed,” he said. “Don’t get ambitious.”

“You dragged me here.”

“I made a medical decision.”

“Was kissing my palm also medical?”

“Your circulation looked poor.”

You laughed, and he kissed you harder to shut you up.

His hand slid under your shirt again, and this time he didn’t stop at your back. His palm moved over your waist, your ribs, then higher, dragging heat after it. He gave you just enough time to pull away. His thumb brushed under your breast, light enough to be cruel.

Your breath caught.

Law’s mouth paused against yours. “Still fine?” he asked, quiet now.

You nodded once.

His eyes narrowed. “Words.”

“Yes,” you said. “Still fine.”

Then his hand covered you properly, and the sound that left you was embarrassingly soft.

He kissed your jaw, your throat, the spot below your ear, while his thumb moved slowly over your nipple through the thin fabric. Not rushed. Not sloppy. Precise enough to make your hips shift without permission.

His thigh slid between yours under the blanket, pressing up just enough to make you tense.

You broke the kiss with a shaky breath. “Law.”

“I know.”

That was the problem. He always knew.

His hand left your chest and slid down over your stomach. Slow. Warm now. His fingers traced the waistband of your shorts like he was considering the most annoying possible way to take you apart.

You grabbed his wrist. He stopped immediately. For half a second, his face went still. Careful. Too careful. Then you guided his hand lower.

“Brat,” he murmured.

“You were taking too long.”

“I was being considerate.”

“You were being evil.”

“That too.”

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric.

Your whole body went hot.

Law watched your face as he touched you over your panties first, slow pressure between your thighs, finding the wet warmth there. His mouth parted slightly, the smallest crack in his composure.

“You’re soaked,” he said, low.

Your face burned. “Don’t sound surprised.”

“I’m not.”

“You sound proud.”

“I am.”

You should have had a comeback. You did not. Because his fingers moved, and the blanket made everything worse. The heat. The closeness. The tiny space where every breath hit his mouth and every movement rubbed your body against his. His hand stayed steady between your thighs, stroking you through the damp fabric, watching you try not to fall apart too quickly.

“You’re quiet now,” he said.

“I hate you.”

“Mm. Of course.”

His fingers pushed your panties aside and your nails dug into his shoulder.

He exhaled once, controlled but rough, when he felt you bare. His fingers slid through you slowly, gathering slick heat before circling your clit with the kind of patience that made you want to bite him.

You buried your face against his neck.

He let you for exactly three seconds, then his free hand caught your jaw and tilted your face back. “Don’t hide.”

“You are annoying.”

“You knew that already.” His fingers circled again, a little firmer, and your hips rocked into his hand.

That made his eyes drop. There was something devastatingly hot about him like this. Still tired. Still half-dressed. Still acting like he had control while his breathing slowly betrayed him. His hair was messy from your fingers. His shirt was wrinkled. His gaze kept moving between your face and the shape of your body shifting under the blanket.

He touched you like he had all the time in the world. Like the world outside his cabin had finally shut up.

When one finger slipped inside you, your breath snapped.

Law kissed the corner of your mouth. “There?”

You nodded.

“Words.”

“Yes.”

His mouth brushed yours. “Good.”

He worked you open slowly, one finger at first, then two, his palm pressed against your clit with every shallow thrust. Not rough. Not gentle either. Intentional. The kind of touch that made your thighs tighten around his wrist.

“You’re making this difficult,” he muttered.

You laughed breathlessly. “For you?”

“For my self-control.”

Your eyes opened, and for once you caught him before he could hide it. The hunger in his face. The strain in his jaw. The way his hips had shifted closer without him seeming to notice.

“Oh,” you whispered.

“Don’t.”

“You’re turned on.”

His stare went flat. “Excellent medical deduction.”

“You’re really turned on.”

“You want me to stop?”

“No.”

“Then stop talking.”

But you felt him against your thigh now, hard and hot through his clothes, and the knowledge made your body clench around his fingers.

Law inhaled. His eyes sharpened. “You did that on purpose.”

“I didn’t.”

“Liar.”

His fingers curled inside you.

You gasped, hand flying to his shoulder, and his mouth found your throat again. He kissed you there messily now, less controlled, teeth grazing skin as his fingers kept their slow, ruthless pace.

Under the blanket, your hips moved against his hand. His palm rubbed your clit every time his fingers pushed deeper. You were hot everywhere, trapped between his body and the blanket and his voice near your ear.

“You’re close,” he said.

You hated how calm he sounded.

You hated more that he was right. “Shut up.”

“Very close.”

“Law.”

“Mm.”

A laugh broke out of you, shaky and breathless, and he kissed it straight from your mouth. His fingers moved faster then. Just enough. The angle changed, his thumb pressing directly against your clit, and your body went tight.

You grabbed his hair and he groaned, not a neat little sound. Not controlled. Low, rough, dragged out of him before he could stop it.

That was what pushed you over.

You came against his hand with your face pressed into his neck, trying to keep quiet and failing in small, broken sounds. Law held you through it, fingers slowing but not stopping too fast, his mouth at your temple, his voice low and close.

“There,” he murmured. “That’s it.”

Your whole body shuddered.

“You’re evil,” you whispered again, weaker this time.

His lips brushed your hair. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it keeps being true.”

He was quiet for a moment. His fingers slipped out of you slowly, and you felt the loss of them in a way that made your stomach twist. Then he pulled back just enough to look at you.

The exhaustion was still there, but underneath it was something rawer. Needier. Law, caught between wanting to pretend he was unaffected and being very obviously affected.

You looked down. His belt was still fastened. His shirt still buttoned. He looked unfairly composed for someone who had just ruined you with his hand. “That seems unbalanced,” you said.

His mouth twitched. “You’re recovering fast.”

“I’m talented.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You’re hard.”

The silence after that was deeply satisfying. Law stared at you.

You smiled.

For once, he did not have an immediate answer. Then his hand caught your waist and pulled you closer until your thigh pressed between his legs. He shut his eyes for one second, jaw flexing.

You moved against him lightly.

He sucked in a breath.

“Oh,” you said softly. “Sensitive?”

His eyes opened. “Careful.”

“No.”

“No?”

You reached down between you and worked his belt open under the blanket. Your fingers were less elegant than his, mostly because your hands were still shaking. Law watched you struggle for three seconds before looking personally offended.

“You’re going to break it.”

“I am not.”

“You’re attacking it.”

“It’s dark under here.”

“It’s a belt, not an enemy.”

“Help or shut up.”

He huffed a tired laugh and helped, undoing it with one hand like an irritating show-off. You pushed his pants open just enough to slip your hand inside.

The moment your fingers wrapped around him, his entire body went still.

He was hot in your hand, hard and heavy, and the sound he made when you stroked him once was almost silent. Almost.

You kissed his jaw. “There?”

His eyes cut to yours. “Don’t start.”

You stroked him again, slower, and his forehead dropped briefly against yours.

That shut both of you up.

The room got quiet except for breathing. Yours uneven. His controlled until it wasn’t. Your hand moved beneath the blanket, fingers sliding over him, learning what made his mouth tighten, what made his hips shift, what made his grip on your waist go almost too firm before he forced himself to ease up.

He was beautiful like this in the worst way. Still trying to hold himself together while letting you touch him. Still trying to be Law about it, even with his breath breaking against your mouth.

You kissed him softly.

He kissed back harder. His hand returned between your thighs, slick fingers finding you again, and you jolted. “You’re sensitive,” he murmured.

“I just came.”

His mouth curved faintly. “You’re welcome.”

You squeezed him in warning.

His smugness died immediately.

Worth it.

He groaned against your mouth, hips pushing into your hand before he could stop himself. His fingers pressed against your clit again, slower now, less calculated, more distracted. That made it hotter. Law losing precision because your hand was around his cock felt like something you should put in a museum.

A terrible museum.

For horrible people.

You moved together under the blanket, messy in a quiet way. Your hand stroking him. His fingers rubbing you. His mouth dragging over yours, then your cheek, then your throat. Neither of you fully undressed. Neither of you needed to. It felt almost more intimate like this, half-hidden and overheated, clinging to each other in the small private dark.

His voice dropped near your ear. “Can you come again?”

Your stomach clenched. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“You’re very demanding for a man I fed rice to.”

His laugh was barely there, rough and low. “Answer.”

“Yes.”

His hand changed pace.

He kissed your cheek like he was pleased with himself and too tired to pretend otherwise.

The second time built slower, deeper, your body still oversensitive from the first. He kept touching you like he knew exactly how much you could take, while your hand grew slick around him from his own precum. His breathing got worse. His jaw pressed against your temple. His hips started moving into your fist in short, restrained thrusts.

“Law,” you whispered.

His fingers stilled for half a second. Not stopped. Checked.

You nodded quickly against him. “Keep going.”

He did. Your legs tightened around his hand again. The blanket had slipped down to your hips, but neither of you cared. Your shirt was pushed up. His pants were open. Everything was too warm, too close, too much.

And still, somehow, soft.

Because his other hand was in your hair. Because his mouth kept brushing your forehead between kisses.

Because even while he was touching you like he wanted to ruin you, he held you like something precious he would rather die than name.

You came again with a broken little sound against his mouth.

This time Law followed almost immediately. His body went tense, his hand closing hard around your hip as he came into your fist with a rough, muffled groan. His face pressed into your neck, breath hot against your skin. For a few seconds, he did not move at all.

You held him through it, fingers gentle now.

His breathing slowly evened out. “Messy.”

You laughed, exhausted and warm. “That’s your first comment?”

“It’s accurate.”

“You’re romantic.”

“I’m tired.”

“You came on my hand.”

“You were involved.”

“You’re stupid.”

His mouth brushed your shoulder. “You’ve said that too.”

“And I’ll keep saying it.”

He shifted carefully, cleaned you both up with a towel from beside the bed. He was efficient about it, but his touch had gone softer. Almost shy, if Law could ever be accused of such a thing without committing murder.

When he settled back down, he pulled the blanket over you both again. You ended up against his chest, your leg tangled with his, your hand resting over his ribs. His heartbeat was slower now. Heavy. Human. He held your wrist for a while, thumb moving over the inside of it.

You thought he was asleep.

Then he murmured, “You’re still not allowed to tell anyone I cuddled you.”

“You didn’t cuddle me.”

“Good.”

“You medically restrained me under a blanket and then got me off twice.”

His chest moved with a quiet laugh. “Accurate.”

You smiled against him, boneless and warm. After a long silence, his hand slid up to the back of your head. He held you there, not tightly. Just enough.

“Thank you,” he said.

It was so quiet you almost pretended not to hear it.

You kissed the side of his throat. “Anytime, Captain.”

“Don’t call me that in bed.”

“Oh, you like it.”

“I don‘t like it.”

“You’re lying.”

He sighed, but his arm tightened around you.

Later, he woke you up with his mouth already against your neck and his hand flat on your stomach.

Not soft. Not sweet. Possessive and warm, his fingers spread under your shirt like he had been holding you there for a while and had only just decided to make it your problem.

You opened your eyes into the dark cabin.

Everything hummed low around you. The walls were thin. Too thin. Somewhere outside, metal creaked, pipes clicked, and the ship sounded alive in the worst possible way.

Law’s mouth moved against your skin. “You awake?” he murmured.

You swallowed. “No.”

His teeth grazed the side of your neck. “Liar.”

You shifted back against him just enough to feel him hard behind you.

His hand stopped moving. For one long second, neither of you breathed right, then his fingers tightened at your waist. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“I’m sleeping.”

“You’re bad at it.”

“You woke me up.”

“You moved first.”

“You were touching me first.”

His mouth brushed your ear. “I was checking your pulse.”

“At my waist?”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?”

You almost laughed, but then his hand slid lower, over your hip, dragging you back against him with enough pressure to make your breath catch.

Law heard it. His voice dropped, mean and quiet. “Careful.”

You turned your face halfway toward him. “Or what?”

That was the mistake. His hand came up and covered your mouth before you could say anything else. Firm. Just enough to remind you exactly where you were, exactly who slept outside that door, exactly how much trouble you were in.

“Or you’ll wake someone,” he murmured. “And I’ll make you explain why you can’t behave.”

Your stomach tightened hard. His eyes caught yours in the dark. “Yeah,” he said, too calm. “That’s what I thought.”

You made a muffled sound against his palm.

Law’s mouth twitched. “Still mouthy. Impressive.”

Then he moved. The blanket shifted over both of you as he slid down your body, disappearing beneath it. Heat flooded your face before his hands even reached your thighs.

“Law,” you whispered.

His answer came from under the blanket, low and dry. “Lower.”

Your fingers twisted in the sheets. “Law.”

“Better.”

His hands pushed your thighs apart, not gently, not cruelly. Just with that controlled strength that made your body obey before your pride could complain. His mouth pressed to the inside of your thigh first, slow and hot, then higher.

You grabbed the blanket. He kissed you once over the thin fabric of your panties. You jolted.

He huffed against you. “Sensitive.”

“You’re annoying.”

His fingers hooked into the waistband and dragged it down just enough. “Still talking.” Then his mouth was on you.

Your head fell back into the pillow, breath breaking immediately.

He did not ease into it. He ate you out like he had woken up starving and decided manners were a disease. His hands gripped your thighs under the blanket, holding you open while his tongue dragged through you slow, then deep, then mean. He was quiet about it except for the low sound in his throat when he tasted how wet you were.

The sound alone almost ruined you, so you bit your knuckle.

One hand left your thigh and pushed your wrist away. His fingers laced with yours instead, pinning your hand beside your hip under the blanket.

“No hiding,” he murmured against you.

“Then let me be loud.”

His mouth paused. The silence under the blanket felt dangerous. Then he gave a low, humorless laugh.

“You really want to embarrass yourself that badly?”

Your whole body burned.

He didn’t wait for an answer. His mouth returned to you, hotter, wetter, filthier. His tongue circled your clit with awful patience before he sucked lightly, just enough to make your hips jerk into his face.

His grip turned bruising. “Don’t move.”

“You’re under the blanket eating me out,” you whispered, breathless. “And you’re giving orders?”

His eyes flicked up from between your thighs. Even in the dark, you felt that stare.

“Yes.”

Then he lowered his mouth again and made you regret being funny.

You were close too fast. Embarrassingly fast. It climbed sharp and hot through your stomach, your legs shaking around his shoulders, your fingers gripping his hair beneath the blanket. He groaned when you pulled, and the vibration went straight through you.

“Law—”

Voices passed outside.

Both of you froze. You stopped breathing. Law went still between your legs, mouth still close enough that you could feel every exhale against your soaked skin.

Two crew members walked past the door, speaking quietly. Too close. Too awake.

You stared at the ceiling, one hand clamped over your own mouth.

Under the blanket, Law’s fingers dug into your thighs.

The voices slowed. For one horrible second, you thought they would stop. Then the footsteps continued down the corridor. Their voices faded. The ship hummed again. Silence settled.

Law did not move for another few seconds, then his mouth pressed one slow kiss to the inside of your thigh.

You whispered, shaky and furious, “You didn’t let me finish.”

He emerged from under the blanket just enough for you to see his face. His mouth was wet. His hair was a mess. His eyes were dark in that flat, devastating way that made him look meaner than he actually was.

“I wasn’t trying to make you finish.”

Your brain stalled. “Huh?”

His hand slid up your thigh. “I wanted to taste you.”

You stared at him. He looked completely serious.

“Do you ever hear yourself?”

“Unfortunately.”

“You’re disgusting.”

His mouth curved faintly. “You’re wet.”

You had no response ready for that. He kissed your stomach once, over your shirt, then climbed over you with an efficiency that should not have been attractive. His hand caught your hip.

“Turn over.”

Your pulse jumped. “Ask nicely.”

Law’s eyes narrowed. Then he leaned in, mouth beside your ear. “Turn over before I decide you don’t get to come at all.”

You huffed and turned. Fast enough that you heard him exhale a quiet laugh behind you.

“Asshole.”

“I’m about to fuck you into the mattress and you’re still insulting me.”

“You started it.”

“I’m going to finish it.”

He pushed you flat onto your stomach, hand between your shoulder blades, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to keep you there. Your legs were pressed together beneath him, thighs tight, body stretched out under the blanket. He straddled them from behind, knees bracketing your legs, trapping you in place with his weight.

The position made you feel pinned before he even touched you.

It made you quiet.

Law noticed that too. His palm slid down your spine, slow, possessive. “There,” he murmured. “Finally learned something.”

You turned your face into the pillow. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” His hand slid beneath you, finding you between your pressed thighs. He felt how wet you still were from his mouth and went still for a second.

Then his voice dropped. “Still dripping.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Stop talking.”

“No.”

He leaned over you, chest against your back, and his arm slid around your throat, forearm firm across your upper chest and collarbone, hand gripping your shoulder, holding you exactly where he wanted you. Your breath hitched anyway.

Law’s mouth brushed your ear. “Tap twice if it’s too much.”

Your hand found his wrist. You tapped once just to be annoying.

He went still, then you dragged his arm tighter around you. “Bad idea,” he whispered.

“Then stop.”

He did not. His other hand disappeared between you, belt shifting, fabric dragged down just enough. You felt him press against you from behind, hard and hot, sliding between your thighs first, coating himself in how wet you were.

Your fingers curled into the sheet. “Law.”

His hand came over your mouth again. “Quiet.”

Then he pushed in.

The angle stole your breath.

Because your legs were together, because he had you pinned flat, because he was above you and around you and everywhere, he felt deeper than before. Tighter. Hotter. You made a broken sound into his palm and his arm locked more firmly across your chest.

He stopped halfway in, forehead dropping against the back of your head. “Fuck,” he breathed, so low it barely had sound.

You clenched around him. His hand tightened over your mouth.

“Don’t.”

So you did it again.

Law went silent, then laughed once, dark and breathless.

“You really are asking for it.”

He drove in the rest of the way. Your body jolted under him, trapped between his chest and the mattress. His hand swallowed the sound you made. The blanket hid the movement, held in the heat, made every thrust feel secret and filthy and too close.

He didn’t fuck you fast at first.

He fucked you hard.

Slow, deep, punishing thrusts that made your thighs tremble together under his weight. His arm stayed around your throat, holding you up just enough that your back arched beneath him. His mouth hovered near your ear, breath rougher than he probably wanted it to be.

“There,” he murmured. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

You nodded against his hand.

His hips snapped forward again. “Of course it was.”

Your eyes rolled shut.

“Look at you,” he said, voice low and mean. “Couldn’t stay quiet from my mouth, and now you’re trying to take this without waking half the ship.”

You whimpered into his palm.

He slowed just to make it worse. “That was not quiet.”

You bit lightly at his hand.

His rhythm faltered. Barely.

But you felt it.

Law’s mouth pressed to your temple. “Careful,” he whispered. “I’m already being nice.”

You almost laughed. It came out as a muffled sob when he started moving again, rougher now, hips grinding deep every time he buried himself inside you. The pressure of your legs together made everything tighter, every stroke dragging against your clit through the way he had you pinned.

It was unbearable.

He knew. He had to know. His hand slipped from your mouth only long enough to catch your jaw and turn your face slightly.

“Breathe.”

You dragged in air.

“Good.” Then his palm covered your mouth again. It should not have been sweet. It wasn’t, not really. But there was something in the way he kept checking, kept holding you together while taking you apart, that made your chest ache under all the heat.

Law’s voice roughened near your ear. “You can take it.”

Your nails dug into his wrist.

“You can,” he repeated. “You’re doing it.” A hard thrust made your whole body jolt. “Quietly.” You made a desperate noise into his palm. His breath shook. “Mostly.”

That almost ruined you. The dry little correction. His voice half-wrecked, still somehow sarcastic while fucking you into the mattress under a blanket with people sleeping down the corridor.

You pushed back against him as much as you could.

Law’s grip turned rough. “Greedy.”

You nodded.

“Yeah?” His mouth brushed your ear. “That all you wanted? Me pinning you down so you’d finally stop pretending you don’t like being handled?”

Your body clenched hard around him.

He cursed under his breath. “Thought so.”

His thrusts got rougher then. Less patient. His chest stayed pressed to your back, his arm around your throat, his hand over your mouth. You were completely trapped under him, legs together, body pinned flat, taking every deep stroke while the bed barely creaked beneath the blanket.

He was trying to keep it quiet.

That made it hotter, because you felt how much effort it took him. The strain in his arm. The way his breathing kept catching. The way his hips wanted to move faster but he forced them into deep, controlled thrusts instead.

“You’re close,” he said.

You nodded quickly. His hand slid from your mouth to your throat for half a second, just to hold your jaw, to keep your face turned enough that he could see you.

“Not loud.”

You swallowed. “Then don’t make me come.”

His eyes darkened. Wrong answer. His hand returned to your mouth, and his other arm tightened across your chest.

“I told you,” he murmured. “Brat.”

Then his hips changed angle.

Your whole body went rigid.

He had found exactly the spot he wanted, and because he was Law, because he was cruel when he was right, he kept hitting it. Again. And again. Deep and rough and controlled, his mouth at your ear, talking you through every second like he could feel your mind slipping apart under him.

“There. That’s it.”

You shook beneath him.

“Don’t fight it.”

Your fingers clawed at the sheet.

“Just stay quiet.”

You came with his hand clamped over your mouth and his arm locked around you, the orgasm tearing through you hard enough that your body tried to curl under his. He held you down through it. Kept you flat. Kept fucking you while you pulsed around him, every sound trapped against his palm.

Law groaned into your shoulder. Not quiet enough. Not nearly as composed as he wanted to be.

You heard it and clenched again, that made hips stutter.

“Don’t,” he rasped.

You did. His control snapped in a way you felt more than saw. His thrusts turned shorter, harder, less even. His face buried against your neck, teeth grazing your skin, breath hot and broken. “You’re unbearable,” he muttered.

You made a muffled sound that might have been a laugh.

His hand pressed more firmly over your mouth. “Still not funny.”

It was absolutely funny.

Then he drove into you deep and stayed there, his whole body tensing over yours as he came with a rough, smothered sound against your shoulder. His arm around your throat held you close while he shook twice, breathing harshly into your skin.

For a while, neither of you moved.

The cabin was silent except for both of you trying to remember how to breathe like normal people.

Then another set of footsteps passed outside.

He froze instantly. So did you. His hand was still over your mouth. He was still inside you. The footsteps paused.

Your eyes went wide. Law slowly turned his head toward the door, expression murderous in the dark.

Someone outside yawned, then kept walking. The footsteps faded.

You started shaking beneath him. Not from fear. From trying not to laugh.

Law’s hand tightened over your mouth, but his own breath hitched once near your ear. “Do not,” he whispered.

You shook harder.

He pulled out slowly, and you both winced. He cleaned you up with infuriating efficiency, still under the blanket, still half-dressed, still trying to look like he had not just lost several pieces of his sanity. Then he dragged you back against him, your back to his chest, his arm around your waist this time.

Much safer. Much less threatening. Still possessive.

You whispered, “You didn’t make me explain.”

His mouth brushed the back of your neck. “Next time.”

Your stomach flipped. “You covered my mouth.”

“And you still almost got us caught.”

You smiled into the pillow. Law exhaled slowly behind you, then pressed one quiet kiss to your shoulder. Soft enough to make the whole thing worse. After a moment, he muttered, “You okay?”

You reached back and touched his wrist. “Yeah.”

His fingers laced with yours. “Good.”

Morning on the ship was usually quiet in a way that felt medical. Dim lights. Low engine hum. People speaking in tired voices because being loud before coffee was how accidents happened.

Law walked into the galley looking like death had filed a complaint against him and lost. Hat on. Shirt buttoned. Face blank.

Completely normal.

You were already at the table with your cup in both hands, trying to look like a person who had slept. You had not. Not properly. Your legs still felt suspicious. Your throat had one spot that made you want to slap him and kiss him every time you swallowed.

Law did not look at you first. That was how you knew he was looking at you.

Bepo was making breakfast with too much cheer for the hour. Shachi and Penguin were half-dead over their plates. Ikkaku was reading something and pretending she was not watching the room with deeply feminine intuition.

Law sat across from you. Calmly. Like he had not had his hand over your mouth a few hours ago because you were both idiots in a submarine full of people with ears.

“Morning, Captain,” Penguin mumbled.

“Morning,” Law said. His voice was normal.

Terrible man.

You lifted your cup to hide your mouth.

Law reached for the coffee pot, then stopped. Just for half a second. Barely anything. His fingers flexed around the handle.

You noticed because you were a bad person. A ruined person. A person with evidence.

His hand was close to his face, and he had smelled it. Not strongly. Not obviously. Just enough.

His eyes went flat.

Oh.

Oh no.

You looked down into your cup so fast your neck nearly cracked.

Law poured his coffee with terrifying precision.

You were going to die.

Not from shame. From trying not to laugh.

He set the pot down. His thumb brushed once over his index finger, like he was trying to decide whether his own hand was guilty of a crime.

It was.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Across the table, Law’s gaze flicked to you. Sharp. Warning.

You widened your eyes innocently.

His jaw tightened. That was when it got worse. He took a sip of coffee. Then his chin dipped slightly, and the faint shadow of his beard brushed the rim of the mug.

His whole face changed by exactly nothing.

But you saw it.

He smelled you there too. On his own skin. From last night. From under the blanket. From the way he had buried his face between your thighs and then still had the nerve to act like breakfast was a normal social event.

His eyelids lowered for one second.

He stared into his coffee like it had personally betrayed him.

Your shoulders started shaking.

Law looked up slowly. “Something funny?”

“No.”

Your voice was too high.

Shachi looked at you. “You okay?”

You nodded quickly. “Coffee went down wrong.”

“You didn’t drink any.”

“Emotionally.”

Ikkaku’s eyes lifted from her page.

Law’s stare could have amputated you.

Bepo turned around with a plate. “Captain, do you want eggs?”

Law did not answer immediately. Because he had moved his hand again. Because his fingers were near his mouth. Because, apparently, his own body had decided to spend the morning reminding him exactly what you tasted like. His nostrils flared once. Very slightly.

You pressed your lips together so hard it hurt.

Law shut his eyes for half a second. He looked like a man trying to survive war.

“Captain?” Bepo asked, worried.

Law opened his eyes. “No eggs.”

Bepo’s ears drooped. “Oh. Sorry.”

Law’s face softened by a millimeter. “It’s fine. Rice.”

“Okay!”

You watched him pick up his mug again. His hand was steady. His face was blank. His control was flawless. Except his ears were faintly red.

You placed your cup down very carefully.

He looked at you. You looked back. Neither of you said anything. Then you smiled.

His expression turned dangerous.

Under the table, his boot nudged your ankle.

A warning.

You nudged him back.

A mistake.

His eyes sharpened. You looked away first because you were not suicidal before noon.

Penguin squinted between you both. “Why is it weird in here?”

“It’s always weird in here,” Shachi said into his plate.

“No, this is different.”

“It’s your face.”

“My face isn’t weird.”

“It’s morning. Everyone’s face is weird.”

You made the mistake of glancing at Law again. He was staring at his rice like the entire concept of appetite had become complicated.

You knew exactly why.

You imagined him trying to eat breakfast while still smelling you on his chin, still catching it on his fingers every time he moved, still pretending that it was not making him think about throwing the whole tray across the room and dragging you back to his cabin.

He would rather be executed than admit it.

That made it so much better.

You took pity on him. Mostly. You leaned forward slightly and said, very casually, “Captain?”

His eyes lifted. “What?”

“You have something on your face.”

Law’s stare went black. Ikkaku slowly lowered her page. Bepo turned around. “Where?” Bepo asked, deeply concerned.

Law did not move. You reached across the table before he could stop you, thumb brushing lightly over the edge of his chin.

His skin was warm. His eyes did not leave yours. The whole room narrowed around that tiny touch.

You pulled your hand back and looked at your thumb. Nothing there. “Nevermind.”

Law’s expression stayed perfectly blank. Too blank.

He was going to kill you.

Penguin blinked. “What was it?”

“Nothing,” Law said. His voice was calm enough to be a medical threat.

You took another sip of coffee. This time you could not stop the smile.

Law leaned back in his chair, one hand around his mug, the other resting on the table. His fingers flexed once.

Still guilty. Still remembering. Still pretending. Then he said, without looking away from you, “You’re assigned to inventory after breakfast.”

You stared at him. “What?”

“Medical inventory.”

“That’s not my job.”

“It is today.”

“That sounds personal.”

“It’s organizational.”

Shachi pointed his spoon at you. “You should never question medical inventory. That’s how he gets mean.”

You looked at Law. Law looked back.

There was no expression on his face.

None.

Except his eyes said very clearly: Keep laughing and I’ll give you something to be quiet about later.

Your stomach flipped. Unfortunately, your mouth was still alive. “Do I need gloves?”

Law’s hand stopped around his mug. Ikkaku made a tiny sound and hid behind her page. Penguin frowned. “For inventory?”

You looked at Law with the innocence of a war criminal. “Just asking.”

Law stood. Very calmly. Pushed his chair in. Very calmly. Picked up his tray. Very calmly. Then he leaned down as he passed behind you, close enough that only you heard him.

“You are going to be quiet when I deal with you.”

Your smile vanished so fast it was humiliating.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ full already? didn’t think so. my masterlist’s right here.

© ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛɢʜᴏᴜʟ

𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦—𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘧𝘵, 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘪 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵.

sword divider by @uzmacchiato

[hppylaw]

I thought this was my Legacy but it isn’t none of this is! (Barry Allen x reader) part.5

Warning: inappropriate language, mention of abuse, depression

Warning: I do not own any of the flash content or the characters it’s just for the story, I only own my character and the story I’m writing

Summary: you the reader are in love with Barry Allen but he is married to Iris West and you get to your breaking point

NOTE: This is an extremely old fic from 2019! I am in the process of revising all my old fics, since they are all extremely badly written. Check out my main masterlist on my account for the rest of the update! (¬_ ´¬ )

•~• Series Masterlist•~•-

•Reader's POV•

I threw a blast of energy at DeVoe.

The air cracked as the attack raced toward him, but he simply raised his hand. Purple energy swirled around his body as he used the stolen powers of countless metas. My attack froze in midair before being hurled back toward me.

I barely managed to dodge.

The blast exploded against a nearby building, shattering windows and sending debris raining into the street below.

"You are very intelligent, Ms. (Y/L/N)," DeVoe said calmly. "But not as intelligent as me."

I glared at him.

"You know, I gave you so much. I helped your powers evolve. Expand. You have abilities you haven't even discovered yet."

I looked at him as though he had lost his mind.

"You're insane."

My fists clenched.

"For weeks I thought I was evil. I thought this darkness was my destiny. I thought becoming Invictus was who I was meant to be."

Red lightning crackled around my body.

"But it isn't."

The ground beneath me cracked.

"This was never my destiny."

I pointed directly at him.

"And I am NOT you."

For a brief second, disappointment flashed across DeVoe's face.

Then it disappeared.

"Oh, my precious Y/N."

His voice was almost sympathetic.

"You're so much stronger than you realize."

Purple energy surrounded him.

"You could be a goddess."

The satellites overhead glowed brighter.

"We could rule this world together."

He stretched out his hand.

"You could have everyone bow before you."

I shook my head.

"No."

His smile faded slightly.

"I don't want any of that."

I took another step forward.

"I don't want power."

Another step.

"I don't want control."

Another.

"And I sure as hell don't want to be you."

The lightning around me exploded outward.

"I'm going to stop you."

DeVoe sighed.

"Such wasted potential."

His eyes darkened.

"But perhaps that's why you've failed so often."

The words hit harder than any attack.

"You failed as a daughter."

I froze.

"You failed as a friend."

Pain shot through my chest.

"You failed your family."

My hands trembled.

"You betrayed everyone who ever cared about you."

For a moment...

The darkness inside me stirred.

The guilt.

The memories.

Barry bleeding.

Caitlin crying.

Cisco looking disappointed.

Joe staring at me like he didn't know who I was anymore.

The darkness whispered.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe I had failed.

Maybe I had become everything I swore I'd never be.

But then I remembered something.

Marlize.

Barry.

Team Flash.

The fact that they never stopped trying to save me.

I lifted my head.

Tears burned in my eyes.

"No."

Light suddenly erupted from my hands.

Golden circles appeared around both wrists.

Pure energy surged through my body.

DeVoe's eyes widened.

I slammed the blast into him.

The force launched him across the street.

He crashed through a row of parked cars.

For the first time...

He looked surprised.

"You've finally begun expanding your powers."

I stared at my glowing hands.

I had never seen this ability before.

Neither had he.

I grabbed the Elites Sphere.

I needed to destroy the satellites.

Now.

Before it was too late.

I turned to run—

A wave of energy slammed into me.

The world blurred.

I crashed through the street and rolled across broken concrete.

Pain exploded through my body.

The Elites Sphere flew from my hands and landed several yards away.

"No..."

DeVoe slowly rose from the rubble.

"You're not going anywhere."

Fear shot through me.

Not for myself.

For everyone else.

I struggled to my feet.

The Sphere.

I had to reach the Sphere.

I took one step.

Then another.

Before I could get close—

A vehicle ripped from the street and slammed into me.

The impact sent me crashing to the ground.

Everything hurt.

My vision blurred.

My leg buckled beneath me.

I looked up.

And my heart dropped.

DeVoe was holding the Elites Sphere.

"No..."

My voice broke.

"No!"

DeVoe admired the device.

"Thank you, Ms. (Y/L/N)."

My stomach twisted.

"You created something capable of changing everything."

Purple energy reflected in his eyes.

"You have been incredibly useful."

Rage exploded inside me.

"No!"

Lightning crashed from the sky.

I pulled every ounce of power I had left.

Every regret.

Every mistake.

Every painful memory.

Every lesson.

Every reason to keep fighting.

The lightning struck DeVoe directly.

His eyes widened.

I pushed harder.

The energy became unbearable.

DeVoe attempted to block it.

Failed.

I ran forward.

Red lightning trailing behind me.

I struck him with everything I had.

The impact launched him backward.

The Elites Sphere flew from his grasp.

I fired Goldface's weapon.

A nearby tree collapsed, pinning him beneath debris.

I sprinted toward the Sphere.

Just a little farther.

Just—

Suddenly—

Pain.

A sharp, overwhelming pain.

Everything stopped.

My breath caught.

The world became silent.

I stumbled.

Fell to my knees.

The Elites Sphere was only a few feet away.

But I couldn't reach it.

My strength was disappearing.

Fast.

"NO!"

Barry's voice.

Somewhere far away.

I heard it.

DeVoe laughed.

Cold.

Cruel.

Victorious.

"I warned you, Ms. (Y/L/N)."

His voice echoed.

"You thought you could defeat me."

My vision blurred.

"Flash," DeVoe continued, "you believed you could save her."

The laughter grew louder.

"I suppose she paid the price for your failure."

Then he was gone.

Vanished.

Leaving only silence behind.

My fingers trembled.

I focused every remaining ounce of power I had.

The Elites Sphere flickered.

Then appeared in my hand.

I smiled weakly.

At least DeVoe didn't have it.

A red blur suddenly appeared beside me.

Barry.

His arms wrapped around me.

His hands were shaking.

"Hey."

His voice cracked.

"Stay with me."

Tears streamed down his face.

"I'm taking you back to S.T.A.R. Labs."

I smiled sadly.

"No, Barry."

"Don't say that."

His voice broke.

"Please."

I coughed weakly.

The world was fading.

Fast.

"Barry..."

He immediately looked at me.

"Promise me something."

He nodded frantically.

"Anything."

"Promise me you'll keep being the Flash."

His eyes filled with tears.

"I need you to stop DeVoe."

I carefully placed the Elites Sphere into his hands.

"I promise."

He gripped it tightly.

"I'll stop him."

I smiled.

"Good."

The team finally arrived.

Cisco.

Caitlin.

Joe.

Ralph.

Iris.

All of them.

Their faces were filled with fear.

With grief.

With disbelief.

"Barry..."

I whispered.

He looked down.

"You're my best friend."

His lip trembled.

"I need you to keep running."

A tear rolled down his cheek.

"I love you, Y/N."

The words hit me harder than anything.

"I always have."

For the first time in a long time...

I believed him.

A small smile appeared on my face.

"I know."

My eyes filled with tears.

"And I love you too, Barry Allen."

Barry broke.

Completely.

"I can't lose you."

His voice cracked.

"I lost my mom. My dad."

He held my hand tighter.

"I can't lose you too."

I squeezed his hand.

"Don't run back in time."

He looked at me.

"Promise me."

His shoulders shook.

"I promise."

Cisco stepped forward.

"We need you."

I smiled weakly.

"No."

I looked at all of them.

"You don't."

Tears rolled down my face.

"You guys are going to be okay."

I looked at each person.

"My family."

Caitlin covered her mouth.

Cisco looked away.

Joe lowered his head.

"We love you," Caitlin whispered.

I smiled.

The darkness was gone.

For the first time in a long time...

I felt peace.

The city was safe.

My family was safe.

And Barry wasn't alone anymore.

I closed my eyes.

Holding his hand.

Listening to the people I loved one final time.

And then...

Everything became quiet.

•Barry’s POV•

I lost her.

I never thought this day would come. I really thought—somewhere deep down—that we would get another chance. That after everything, after all the chaos and broken timelines and impossible fights… we would finally find a way to be together.

But I lost her.

Just like I lost my mother. Just like I lost my father.

Except this time, it didn’t feel like history repeating itself.

It felt like something inside me had been torn out and left open.

It hurts. A lot more than I can put into words. A kind of pain that doesn’t fade when you stand still, and doesn’t go away when you run.

I just… keep feeling it everywhere.

Like she’s gone, but the world forgot to take the weight of her with her.

~24 hours later~

We defeated DeVoe.

Everyone is safe.

That should’ve felt like victory. Like relief. Like closure.

It didn’t.

It just felt quiet.

Marlize said she was sorry for our loss… that she was going to step away, focus on herself, travel the world. Like she needed distance from everything we became.

I didn’t blame her.

None of us said much after that.

We were all still trying to process it.

Still trying to accept that (y/n) was really gone.

Now we’re here.

At her funeral.

The sky is grey, heavy like it can’t decide whether to rain or mourn with us. The air feels too still, like even nature knows not to interrupt this moment.

I stand near the front, my hands clenched so tightly I don’t feel my fingers anymore.

I don’t want to be here.

I don’t want this to be real.

I keep waiting for her voice to cut through it all—some sarcastic comment, some stubborn joke, some spark of lightning saying she’s still here and this was all just another impossible plan.

But nothing comes.

Only silence.

I think about everything she said before she died.

Keep running.

That’s what she told me.

Even when she was slipping away… even then, she was still trying to take care of me.

My throat tightens.

I step forward slowly, like my body is moving without permission.

A rose is in my hand.

I don’t remember picking it up. I just remember not being able to stop myself from holding onto something real, something physical, something that proves she existed outside of my memories.

I reach the casket.

My hands shake as I lower the rose onto it.

It lands softly.

Too softly.

Like she should’ve been here to feel it.

I swallow hard, my voice barely there.

“I’m going to keep running,” I whisper. “Just like you told me.”

My eyes burn.

“And I’m not going to stop… not until I make sure you’re remembered. Not until everything you fought for means something.”

My breath breaks.

“I love you,” I say, quieter now. “And I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

“I promised you I’ll defeat DeVoe… and I did. Everyone is safe,” I said, but my voice broke halfway through like my chest couldn’t hold it together anymore. “I didn’t go back in time… I didn’t try to fix it… even though it still feels like I should.”

I swallowed hard, staring at the floor like it might explain how to breathe again.

“You’re gone, (y/n)… and you were everything to me,” I whispered. My hands trembled as I forced the words out. “I love you.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than any battle I had ever fought.

And for the first time since she’s been gone…

I don’t run.

We walked back to Joe’s house, I walked towards Joe's couch but my legs felt like they didn’t belong to me anymore. Everything felt distant—like I was underwater, watching life happen without me.

(y/n) was gone.

And it felt exactly like the day I lost my parents… except this time, I didn’t even have anger to hold onto. Just emptiness.

I sat by the window, staring out at the streetlights flickering in the dark, trying to convince myself that if I stayed still long enough, the pain would stop moving.

It didn’t.

“Hey… you okay?” Iris asked softly.

“I’m fine,” I said immediately.

It came out wrong. Flat. Dead.

“You don’t sound fine,” she said, not accusing—just knowing.

My jaw tightened. I kept my eyes on the glass so she wouldn’t see them filling again.

“I just… wish she wasn’t gone,” I said quietly. My voice cracked anyway. “She helped me through everything. And she never asked for anything back… just someone to stay. Someone to care. And I couldn’t even give her that.”

A tear slipped down before I could stop it. I hated that it did.

“Barry… you did everything you could,” Iris said gently.

I finally looked at her. My eyes burned.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“For what?” she asked.

“For lying… about my feelings,” I admitted.

A pause. Then Iris shook her head slowly.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Barry,” she said. “Your heart doesn’t choose on command. I’m not mad at you.”

That should’ve made me feel better.

It didn’t.

“Thank you, Iris,” I said, barely audible.

“I’m always going to be here for you,” she replied.

She pulled me into a hug.

I held on longer than I should’ve, not because it fixed anything—but because letting go meant accepting she was really gone.

When we finally separated, she went back to the table where everyone else sat.

Joe. Cecile. Caitlin. Cisco. Ralph. Wally. Iris.

All of them still here.

Still breathing.

Still trying.

Joe and Cecile had baby Jenna now—life moving forward even when we didn’t feel ready. Caitlin had learned to live with Frost instead of fearing her. Cisco still built, still joked, still tried to make the world lighter even when it wasn’t. Ralph kept pretending humor could cover grief. Wally stayed steady beside Iris.

We were still a team.

But something was missing from the center of it.

And no one said her name out loud anymore… like it would make the loss too real.

There was a knock at the door.

Iris stood and opened it.

A young woman stood there.

Something about her presence made the room shift—like time itself had to adjust around her.

“Can we help you?” Iris asked carefully.

Everyone turned.

I stood up slowly.

Something in me already knew this wasn’t normal.

“Who are you?” I asked.

The woman hesitated. Like she was deciding whether saying it would change everything.

Then she exhaled.

“I’m your daughter… Nora. From the future,” she said.

The room went silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

Like the world stopped to listen.

“I think I made a big—really big mistake,” she added.

My throat tightened. “What are you talking about?”

“Helping you stop the last satellite,” she said quickly, urgency in her voice.

I blinked. “Wait… you said your name is Nora?”

She nodded.

“After her,” Nora said softly. “You and mom loved the name.”

My heart skipped.

“Mom?” I repeated, like the word didn’t belong in my timeline.

Her eyes flickered with pain. “Yeah.”

Then she looked at all of us.

And something in her expression broke slightly.

“I’m guessing… right now she’s gone.”

My breath caught.

“Gone?” I whispered.

“My full name is Nora (y/l/n) Allen,” she said.

The world tilted.

(y/n). My chest clenched so hard it hurt.

“She’s your mother?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

Nora nodded.

“Mom isn’t gone forever,” she added quickly, voice shaking now. “She’s in the Infinite Force.”

“Infinite Force?” I echoed.

“It’s like the Speed Force… but deeper. More unstable. She’s there right now,” Nora said.

I stared at her like she might disappear if I blinked too hard.

“She’s alive?” I asked, barely able to say it.

“Yes,” Nora said. “Just… not here.”

My hands clenched into fists.

“You’re a speedster?” I asked.

She nodded again, a small nervous smile breaking through. “Yeah. I was born with it.”

“My parents are Flash and Bolt,” she said, like it was something she had said a thousand times in her head before finally saying it out loud. “And I’m trying to follow their legacy.”

My chest tightened at the words.

“So how do we know you’re not lying?” I asked, voice low.

“I’ll show you,” Nora said.

In a blur of lightning, she moved—gone, then back in the same breath.

My eyes widened.

Real.

Fast.

Like me… but different.

I swallowed. “Do you know how to bring her back?”

Nora nodded immediately.

“You need a speed bazooka,” she said. “But upgraded with the Elites Sphere. That’s the only way to pull her out of the Infinite Force safely.”

The room erupted in low tension—fear, confusion, urgency.

“Okay,” I said, voice steadying as grief turned into something else.

Determination.

“Let’s do it,” I said.

The team looked at me.

I didn’t hesitate this time.

“We’re getting her back.”

And for the first time since she died… I let myself believe I might not lose her forever.

The End...